


all I've ever known is how to hold my own, but now I wanna hold you, too

by DrJackAndMissJo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And all that jazz, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent John Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Comforting Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Needs to Use Actual Words, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Depression, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode AU: s15e20 Carry On, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Jack Kline is a Winchester, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Quote: I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition. (Supernatural), Quote: Y yo a ti Cas | Me too (Supernatural), Self-Harming Dean Winchester, Supportive Sam Winchester, Talk about feelings, Witchcraft, but he's gonna learn, dead beat dad that deserves to rot in hell forever, finale rewritten, take you effing twink and leave, talk about retirement, trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJackAndMissJo/pseuds/DrJackAndMissJo
Summary: (...) ‘When was the last time he had drunk himself to sleep?’, he tried to remember as he rubbed the remains of his ruinous night off of his eyes. (...) He had saved the world, defeated the last Big One, earned his free will and freedom. And all he could do was drown his sorrow and pain.***Dean wakes up alone, in the bunker, mourning his best friend, the love of his life, his Angel. Until lightning struck and he gets the most insane and dumbest idea in the history of insane and dumb ideas!The real question is: Will it work?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 44
Kudos: 163





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer! I don't own shit, the characters belong to a shitty company that doesn't care about its fanbase and our community and I have adopted them all to give them the happiness they deserve.  
> *  
> The title comes from the musical 'Hadestown' and well. I don't wanna spoil anything but keep an eye out for parallelisms, not only with Euridice and Orpheus, but also with Icarus and the Sun, and Patrochilles... what can I say I am a sucker for Greek myths!  
> Enjoy!

Dean woke up abruptly, drenched to the bone and gasping for air.

He felt like he had drowned on solid earth, just as all those years prior when he had been shoved out of Hell, the first time they met.

He was used to nightmares, it came with the job description, after all. He was used to them in his sleep, in his waking hours, and in everything in between. Nothing on the weird and abnormal and supernatural realm really scared him anymore, not after everything he had seen and done.

Airplanes and storms, those were tangible fears, real, and they still terrified him for obvious reasons. He had been stuck inside a dirty motel room while the Heavens rained down one too many times growing up, jumping up at every stroke of lightning, and the thought of being so far up in the sky, completely out of his element and with the voyage totally out of his control, made his stomach sick.

But after having killed the unkillable and defeated the all-powerful forces of the Universe? Now, regular monsters were almost ordinary.

20 years prior he would have dreaded going into a vamp’s nest without checking the plan fifteen times, thinking about all the ways he could fail and die, and he would still have to put on a brave façade, a persona that was and wasn’t him at the same time, just to remind himself not to act like a scaredy-cat. And now those same hunts, done a million times in every combination possible, were just boxes to be checked on the to-do list, stops to be made in a grocery run.

If anything, the more he learnt about the Supernatural, the more he found it all mundane.

There were terrible monsters, that stopped at nothing just to feed, just to hurt, and there were kind creatures that lived along with civility. Just like humans, they were complicated beings. During the years, he had learnt how to de-villainize them and he unlearnt his flawed knowledge that the world was only in black and white.

It was in technicolour, magnificent.

And so, removing their typical subjects and replacing them with positive memories, the nightmares had subdued. They didn’t wake him up in the middle of the night anymore and they didn’t shake him to his core like they used to.

He could sleep for an entire night without being bothered by them, his mind occupied with domestic pieces of a life that he yearned for but that couldn’t have.

It was just a matter of time before his luck ran out.

Chuck was finally gone, out of the picture, powerless and pathetically human, unable to keep on hurting them. And now that he could actually take some time to rest, to think about a future when he didn’t have to hide and hunt and risk his life for the silliest of reasons, his mind wouldn’t let him.

His brain had reared its ugly head and had begun to spew hate towards him, once again, like it used to.

He had tossed and turned the entire night, incapable of finding solace and, eventually, falling into a light sleep that had drained him of all his remaining energy. And he had spiralled down in a nightmare that had plagued him with all he had lost.

All those he had lost.

When he did wake up, jumping up in a defensive stance with the covers tangled on his legs, incapable of even taking his gun from the nightstand in his clammy hands, Dean thought that he was still asleep.

He must’ve been dreaming, walking in on his own nightmare: the empty and silent halls of the bunker were deafening, maddening, the only sound present was his ragged breathing and the ticking of his clock; his mind was too clouded by the previous night’s copious amount of alcohol for him to process his surroundings properly. He couldn’t feel his body, not with the way that his head pounded in the dark room, illuminated only by the open door.

He felt the ashy taste of alcohol before he had even had a chance to smell it, even when surrounded by empty bottles, and it somehow helped to bring him back at speed.

 _‘When was the last time he had drunk himself to sleep?’_ , he tried to remember as he rubbed the remains of his ruinous night off of his eyes.

It had been a couple of years at least. He used to do it a lot in his early adulthood, after finishing a job especially. Because no matter how many people he helped and saved, there were always twice, three times as much that he couldn’t protect. That died due to his incompetence.

And so, he coped, the only way he knew how, the only way his father had taught him to.

But lately, he hadn’t had the need to chase the bottoms of bottles, to get lost in the way the liquid burned his throat and wiped his mind clean, void of thought, even for a short while.

He had work to do, evils to defeat, gods to dethrone. And he needed his mind to be unclouded to survive, so he limited himself.

It wasn’t hard, especially since he wasn’t drinking alone anymore. It had become a routine of theirs, whenever Cas stayed over at the bunker, to sit in the main room on opposite sides of the table, sharing a glass of whiskey, just enjoying each other’s company. There were too many words unspoken between them, sentences that Dean couldn’t let out, but they always tried to put it all away, focusing on the moment, ignoring the way Sam always managed to interrupt them whenever they were talking alone.

Yet, he was alone now. He had saved the world, defeated the last Big One, earned his free will and freedom. And all he could do was drown his sorrow and pain. It was truly amusing, after everything that had happened to him and that he had accomplished, he was still so broken and unable to pull himself up.

And twice in such a short time he had fallen back into his old habit of drowning his emotions under dark liquids, both times for the same reason.

It took Cas three days to come back, that first time. Three days in which Dean had to pull through, had to be the rational one, had to pretend that he wasn’t hurting. He and Sam were giving a ride to the Spawn of the Devil, after all. He had to be vigilant.

Therefore, he didn’t drink to his heart’s content. Just enough to make the voices that screamed in his head quiet, even for a short while. He kept going, like he knew he should’ve. Like Dean knew _he_ would’ve wanted.

He was holding himself up straight only because Cas would’ve wanted him to. Even if all he could think about was to curl up and disappear, leaving the world behind in his grief, he knew he couldn’t. He had work to do.

And when he had come back, Dean’s life had been alright again. He had his best friend back from the dead, all thanks to the demonic little kid who didn’t seem so bad after all.

But, unfortunately, that seemed to have been a one-time deal. That first time, it was the Empty themselves that had spat out Cas back, just so they could go back to dreamland, just so they could take out the distracting Angel that had awoken them, causing them pain. And Jack, albeit powerful, was still learning what he could and could not do, and pulling angels out of there wasn’t amid his powers. Especially now that they were awake and incredibly pissed, even if they were confined in their own pocket of space.

All those years back, Jack had awoken Cas, causing the Empty to send him back to gain their peace, but Dean doubted he’d have the same luck twice, no matter how hard he prayed.

Hence the two, empty bottles of whiskey that he had opened just the night before that were left somewhere between his room and the kitchen, and the dozen bottles of beer that littered his bedroom.

At his newly found rate, he would have to sober up enough to do a proper grocery run pretty soon. He had probably drunk the entire bunker dry in the four days since his world had fallen apart, unable to be pieced together.

He violently tugged at the covers, trying to untangle himself from their trap. Dean knew that there was no way his body would allow him to fall back asleep, but he could still try.

After all, he had learnt from first-hand experience that simply laying horizontally without moving was close enough, if not a more pleasant experience. Because sleeping meant dreaming and dreaming meant seeing Castiel’s tearful face as the Empty took him, over and over and over.

And so, he laid back on the mattress, crossing his arms over his chest, as if it could somehow make the pain stop. Or, at least, that was his intention.

The previously silent halls and corridors of the bunker weren’t so quiet anymore. They echoed with the sound of feet dragging over the tiles, running closer and closer, accompanied by a ragged breath that did not sound human. If he had heard it even a moment earlier, he could’ve blamed it on his drowsiness, on his mind still replaying the sounds of his nightmares, but he was alert.

There was no way it came out of his imagination.

He hastily kicked the covers out of the way, hand hovering over the gun on his nightstand, refusing to hold it just yet. There might have been a small chance that his memory was simply hazy and foggy, that it was just Sam coming back from his ungodly run at the crack of dawn, if only it wasn’t for the fact that he clearly remembered Sam leaving the previous morning to go to Eileen’s and staying the night there. And, sure, he might have come back early, but his instincts told him otherwise.

So far, his gut had rarely betrayed him, and he had no intention of starting to doubt it now.

But, sure enough, his memory was lacking some important pieces from the previous days, he realised when a massive beast jumped on his bed and started lapping at his face. He was momentarily pulled down on his back by the sheer amount of dog strength, bracing himself as Miracle made himself comfortable on his sternum.

Dean couldn’t help himself from laughing, holding onto the dog and cuddling the beast. How could have he forgotten! He had taken him home once everything had settled down, forcing Sam to go and get all the necessary supplies while he and Miracle made a trip to the vet to check him out. He was terrified of another bad news, of another tragedy, but Miracle was in perfect health and acquainted himself with the bunker straight on.

And, for as much as Sammy pouted that their life was way too erratic and unpredictable to keep an animal, he knew deep down that this was a step into the right path. They had saved the world for the last time. They could finally write their own story, instead of following along to some lamely written garbage.

Dean’s story had to start with a little bit of acquired happiness, otherwise, he would have never recovered from the loss of his best friend. From the loss of the only person that knew him better than himself. From the loss of the love of his life.

Therefore, the new piece of the family that didn’t shed as much as Sam did.

“Hey, buddy! Good morning,” he said, reclining back into a seating position and hugging the fluffy thing again. It had taken him an entire afternoon to wash him off who knew how long on the road, but the result had been worth getting soaked and wetting every single surface of the bathroom. His fur was now soft and shiny and since the vet had confirmed that, by some miracle indeed, he didn’t have bugs or fleas, Dean had no refrains in cuddling him until his heart was full, even for just a moment.

He had never been good with expressing emotions and affection, but this was different. He had always wanted a dog, back when he was younger, but his father wouldn’t let him. “ _The road’s no place for an animal_ ,” he always replied briskly whenever Dean asked and, with time, he learnt that it was better to keep quiet on the subject. He’d had to take care of two instead of his usual one, after all.

However, now that they had completed their work for good, he could take in the little stray. They had enough space in the bunker for him, all things considered.

“You hungry?” he asked directly to his snout, ruffling his fur with both of his hands for good measure.

It was incredible, the comfortable way he had settled in Dean’s life. He was so utterly used to rejection and disgust that even a thing as simple as a dog’s affection made his heart ache. Of course, just like the copious amounts of alcohol, they were just a mean to try and fail in filling the gaping hole that occupied his chest, as if he had been impaled.

“Yes, yes you are,” he said, suddenly more energised than he had expected. It really felt good, this fleeting happiness that he had managed to salvage in the midst of his broken heart. “C’mon, let’s go!”

They got out of the bed at the same time, Miracle wiggling his tail and leading the way towards the kitchen.

Dean paused a moment at the door. He had fallen into the routine of putting slippers and robe on before leaving his room, getting some modesty as he roamed the short distance between his room and the rest of the bunker before his first cup of coffee, a luxury he had never been able to afford before they moved into the bunker. It was very hard, getting the privacy he craved in crappy motel rooms with shared bathrooms.

But the cold floor against his feet helped to ground him to his new reality, to the fact that they lived in a world where things might go well for the first time. That he lived while Cas didn’t.

And so, he forewent the slippers, uncaring of the freezing tiles. And he had no use for the robe, without anyone but the dog around to see him in his messy attire. He hadn’t even bothered getting out of his shirt the previous night, straight out falling onto the bed, searching for some sort of solace that never came.

He followed Miracle out of his room, trying to let his mind wander to all the food that was in the kitchen, ready to be prepared.

If only he had the strength and energy to start cooking.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean hadn’t been back into the dungeon yet. Not since he had gathered all his remaining strength to get up from the cold floor, his heart aching after hours of despair and tears. He had remained frozen on the spot Cas had thrown him, unable to process what had happened, ignoring the insistent calls. It wasn’t like his voice would work anytime soon and he didn’t want Sam to realise just how broken he was.

His mind was shattered, but, somehow, he had managed to ignore all the pain he felt, leaving all his emotions behind in a haste. He had run through the bunker, driving in search for Jack and Sam, needing to get as far away from that place as he could, before the walls closed down on him and suffocated him.

It took him all he had just to walk back through the entrance, once they came back, unfruitful. They had rolled the luck dice one last time, risking it all with Chuck just to get everything back to normal. Or, at least, that had been Sammy’s motif.

Dean couldn’t care less if the world burned to the ground and collapsed on its axis, as long as Cas was alright, back with him.

And, of course, the bastard had refused their offer. It was too little too late, he had said, and then he just left them, continuing to play his ridiculous game, forcing them to look for another desperate solution.

During the drive back, Dean chose to remain silent, focused entirely on the road, even though there were nobody else but them, his jaw clenched so tightly that it hurt. Sam had tried to talk to him about what had happened, to understand why he was acting so lost, as if they had no way of winning anymore, but Dean couldn’t speak. How could he, when all he truly wanted to do was drink until his head stopped working and until his heart stopped aching? How could he talk about it, when all that would come out of his mouth would be strangled cries of agony at the knowledge that he was alone, away from the person he truly loved and that, by some miracle, apparently loved him back?

He knew, deep down on the rational side of his brain, that Sam would’ve understood, if only he managed to talk about it. He had just lost Eileen, after all. They shared the same pain.

Yet Dean couldn’t explain any of it even if he tried, the shame was too powerful, the pain was too strong, crippling his every action. And, at the End of the world, there was no time to unpack 11 years of love and friendship and pining and trust and heartbreak and internalised fears.

When they had finally arrived back to the bunker, after their disastrous trip, he had gone straight for the alcohol, not even taking his bloodied jacket off, _his_ handprint dried on the material.

Four days later and he still had to wash it but simply couldn’t. Not now, not yet. Not when the wound was still too fresh, throbbing and painful, even though he doubted it would ever stop hurting.

Not until he had his Angel back.

Which would never happen.

His mind couldn’t stop replaying the moment he realised that Castiel loved him back, just as much as he did. His words had hurt more than bullets, letting Dean know that all the time he had wasted holding back his tongue and his heart was futile. If only he had been braver, less of an idiot, he could have had the love of his life in his arms. He could’ve been happy.

They could’ve been happy together.

But he was scared and weak and traumatised and had decided that the small crumbs of seemingly platonic affection the angel could give him were enough. He didn’t care about how much it killed him to think of Cas as an unreachable high, a distant light that shone brightly onto him, untouchable lest he got burned, because all he needed was to be close to him, to have him in his life, however inaccessible he might have been. He knew that little was better than nothing, no matter how late it came.

Oh, just how foolish he had been!

And now, he was so utterly alone: Jack was off in Heaven with Amara, trying to fix all the damage Chuck had done to the Universe; Sam was with Eileen, not wasting his time; and Dean, with only the company of Miracle and of his taunting ghosts, was wandering the empty halls of the bunker as if they were foreign soil, unrecognisable.

Somehow, in his endless and mindless roaming, his feet had dragged him there. In 7B. In the same room he had avoided like the plague.

He could still hear it all: Castiel’s final words, his confession, the shadows of the Empty closing in and taking him away, Billie knocking on the door.

Everything was exactly as he had left it in his haste, the door blown wide open, the chair out of place, the blood splattered on the bookcases. No one had touched anything, all of them unable to get in there, all for different reasons.  
Jack had lost one of his fathers, the one that had always had faith in him. Sam had lost one of his oldest friends, the one that had been with them the longest, sticking around when everything was hopeless.

And Dean had lost his Angel, his best friend in the whole world, the love of his life.

He regarded the empty room with devastation clutching his bones, his gaze refusing to focus on anything, vision blurry as the tears started to rise unprompted. He thought he had shed every single one he had in his body, but life just kept on reminding him of his mistaken assumptions.

He always thought that he had enough bullets, and yet monsters kept on overpowering him. He always thought he knew his own limits, and yet he kept on breaking down his own barriers for the people he loved. He always thought that Castiel couldn’t reciprocate, because he was an angel of the Lord and love was a very human emotion, but his Angel just loved to prove him wrong.

He violently closed his eyes, unable to keep on watching the empty room taunt him. He should’ve done something more than just stand there, dumbfounded, as Cas confessed his deepest secret to him. All he had managed to say was a meek _‘Me too, Cas_ ’, barely audible, still processing his rotten luck.

But it wasn’t enough. It would’ve never been enough.

Castiel deserved the world, he had fought so hard for it and he had earned all the peace and happiness that it could offer. He deserved more than someone as broken and as ruined as Dean. He deserved to be able to see his son live and prosper and be good, just as he had always believed he would be.

He should’ve been the one trapped in the Empty, Dean lamented to himself, leaning his forehead against the hard wood.

His hands balled into fists at his sides and he rose them up, punching the door at a mere inch from his face. He needed to scream, to yell, to cry out at the unfair Universe who just kept taking and taking from him, never granting him a break, not even after gaining the so desperately fought for free will. 

And so, he did, allowing himself the luxury to finally break down and let his emotions roam free, kept on a tight leash for too long. He fell to his knees against the hard panels, turning around to sit with his legs stretched out into the empty room.

Before, when Sam was still around, he hadn’t let himself break down as he feverishly wanted to, as he had desperately needed to. Dean knew that he would have understood his pain, shared it to the little extent he could, his own brotherhood with Cas lost. But telling would’ve meant explaining, and he knew he would have not been able to do so.

For too long he had kept his silence, kept this secret until it became unspeakable, deeply rooted in him, an unwavering part of his being. And now it was over, useless, painful.

So, Dean allowed himself to cry, to rage, to despair. There was no one listening, no one to pray to. He was alone in the Universe, just him and his pain.

Powerless.

He didn’t know what terrified him the most: the knowledge that he could do nothing or the fact that he would willingly do anything, unspeakable as it might have been, bargain everything he had and was, just to see him again. One last time.

But what could he, a simple hunter, do where all-powerful beings couldn’t?

And, even if by some rotten luck, he had managed to overpower all of his enemies, destroy all the monsters that populated his path and win all of his battles, that didn’t mean he was able to finish this.

Chuck and Amara now seemed like a walk in the park, he thought bitterly. He and Sam had been able to defeat the greatest and most powerful beings in the Universe only by sheer dumb fortune and an insane amount of magic. There was no way in Hell or Heaven or Purgatory that he would be able to one-up himself, with only his meek abilities as a hunter.

Sure, he was not the scared little boy he had once been anymore and he had actually learnt something about magic along the way, but that didn't mean anything. 

Any idiot could chant something over a bowl while tossing some herbs in, right?

And how could've he asked Sam for help, when his little brother was off, happy and free to do whatever he wanted without having to save the world or without Dean dragging him down?

No, Dean was alone and powerless and terrified, trapped in a prison of his own making.

And so, he cried, until his throat was hoarse from his screaming and his eyes were stinging from all the tears, way more than he had let loose during his entire life.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, too lost in his sorrow.

He had never felt this hopeless in his entire life. He was alone, scared and miserable.

All the magic in the world wouldn’t have sufficed in mending his broken heart.

But, he realised as he kept on staring at the wall where the Empty’s shadows had appeared, as if silently begging the black goo to appear and take him away as well, perhaps all the magic in the world could’ve helped, even just to get him where he wanted to be.

He lived amongst the largest collection of supernatural artefacts and knowledge, had the literal keys to Death’s wards in a dusty old box, hidden on a random shelf in one of their storage rooms.

Surely, amidst the dusty old books, there must have been something, anything. He would take it all, crumbles as they might have been.

He jumped to his feet, uncaring of how his head spun at the movement, suddenly energised and fuelled with his new recognition. Even if it turned out to be a dead-end, even if it was most likely going to kill him, it was still better than doing nothing, sitting around the bunker chasing the end of bottles as his liver failed. He still had to try. He knew the best witch in the world, after all. Had her own books littered all over the bunker!

Surely, something, anything could have come out of the pages.

And Dean ran, back to his room, ready to go to war with the only plot hole that remained in his story.

Dead set on getting his happiness back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you catch that Icarus and the Sun parallel? I just love to make myself cry over those things!


	3. Chapter 3

The sheer number of books about the afterlife that they had laying around the bunker was exhausting just to look at.

Still, Dean launched himself at them gladly, diving head-first into their yellowed pages. He had gathered in four trips to the main room every single text that looked suspicious, dumping them unceremoniously on the three tables without order or thought, just wanting to have them all in one room so he could freely jump from one to the other without moving too much. He would have had the entire day to sort them, after all.

He had bothered Sam for ages about how disorganised their classification system was, but they never had had the time to fix it by switching to Dewey’s decimal system. Now, Dean could finally remedy, once he had his Angel back.

He could already imagine it: spending the day dusting over old books, finding them their perfect spot on the countless shelves that adorned the walls and rooms of the bunker; some random music on the background as they worked side by side, Cas humming along with the notes in that divine voice of his; them going to bed when the day was done, tired but immensely happy.

And, with that daydream keeping him company, Dean immediately dug into the books voraciously, categorising them and taking notes of everything that was remotely useful in his quest, taking short breaks whenever he finished one to purposefully pet and cuddle Miracle to his heart’s content.

For someone as starved for affection as Dean was, Miracle lived to his namesake. He had arrived just at the right time, reminding him that his destiny was finally his to write, if he only could read the clues and work for it.

And for the first time in forever, he felt like he was doing something right. Like something good might finally happen. Like he was on the right path.

Dean didn’t care that a good three-quarters of the books they had in the bunker only dealt with human afterlives, going on and on about the fate of a soul once they passed. He simply skimmed through those, searching for something he hadn’t experienced first-hand, jotting down every piece of information that seemed important.

Sure, the amount of misinformation some pages held was shocking and alarming, but he wasn’t bothered about it. Not everyone had been through all of Heaven, Purgatory and Hell multiple times, after all. He still marked them with post-it notes, to remind himself to fix all the errors he had found in them, once everything was back to normal.

He was so engrossed in his search, immersed nose-first in the never-ending piles of books, that he had lost track of the passing time on a couple of occasions. If Miracle hadn’t been there, gently tugging at his sleeve whenever the clock ticked a new hour, he probably would’ve not noticed the approach of lunchtime, no matter how loud his stomach lamented, or the fact that he needed bathroom breaks, even with his bladder internally screaming at him. Knowing himself, Dean would’ve definitely fallen asleep on some priceless and irreplaceable text, drooling all over the pages, and he would have beaten himself about it whenever he had awoken with a sore neck.

They were a great pair, he and Miracle, and he couldn’t stop marvelling at that knowledge. “This is way better than doing research with Sammy, but don’t you tell him!” he had told him sometime around dinner, when he was fixing him his bowl, thinking about what to make for himself. He spent some quality time staring at the semi-empty fridge, as if it would magically blurt out something other than leftover chicken and some beer.

He’d have to go grocery somewhere in the near future, but, for now, he’d be fine with the little he had at his disposition, used to making do with what he could find.

Long gone where the days of surviving on scraps, leaving the best of what he could find for Sammy, or buying the least expensive thing at the store that could last them three days, paying with the little money he made playing pool with people three times his height. Now that they had access to the Men of Letter’s accounts, frozen since the sixties and now reaching skyrocketing numbers, he could afford to live like a normal human being, eating like one too, without having to worry about consuming too much water in his microwavable mac’n’cheese.

“It’s so calm, not having him interrupt with all of his constant ‘ _So get thi_ s’,” he commented after his first bite of the chicken sandwich he had created out of nowhere, his ability at making seemingly satisfying food out of nothing still useful as when he was 10, deciding to forego the beer that was now sitting alone in the fridge. He needed his brain to work and the alcohol would have only clouded his judgment, making him sleepy when all he wanted to do was find the answers to his desperate request.

He had finally found something promising, a book that talked in detail about demons and the difference between killing and an exorcism for them. And, while the subject wasn’t his desired one, it was a beginning, nevertheless. For all their differences, angels and demons were birds of a feather, it was only logical that their fate could be similar to one another.

For the first time in hours, he felt close to a breakthrough and he didn’t feel like crap for taking a break. He could almost hear Cas, reminding him to take care of his human body, in the way Miracle had barked at him when it was time to eat again.

“I get that he is the smart one, the one that finished school by something other than a fluke and that went to college,” he continued, able to talk freely without being judged, “but I would really appreciate if he just didn’t interrupt me with his infodumps. All the time, he’s like _‘I found this, which is irrelevant to the case but makes me look smart, and then this, which is what we needed actually’_. Just ‘cause I have a harder time getting there, it doesn’t mean I can’t. I am not as stupid as I look, you know? I can do my own research and solve my own cases. Just ‘cause Dad always assumed I was the fuck-up, he shouldn’t have picked up that habit.”

He didn’t expect the dog to start replying anytime soon, but it was helpful, getting those weights off his chest, after they had remained on for too long. The only other being he had ever felt comfortable around enough to bare his soul, was Cas, who had never once interrupted him in those rare moments of truth. Cas, who listened without giving his input until he had the entire picture in front of him, managing to comfort him and to make him see the world through new lenses, not a dark and hopeless place anymore. Cas, who knew his soul inside and out.

But Miracle was a good listener as well. Granted, he didn’t offer the same acknowledgement and quiet understanding as Cas did, but he rubbed his snout over Dean’s knee, and he let himself be petted over and over and over. And, somehow, that was enough.

He truly appreciated the company. Without Sam and Jack and Cas, the bunker was way too empty, all the space wasted on only one person.

“You know,” he said, once they were back in the main room, Dean resuming his readings while Miracle laid next to him, resting his old bones, “I have always thought that I’d die young, in full guns out glory. But maybe not anymore, right?”

The more he thought about it, the more he realised how fundamentally wrong he had been. That wasn’t his mind speaking rationally, but rather Chuck’s plan in motion. And sure, he would definitely need some therapy, now that that whole debacle was over, and granted that he would need to find someone who didn’t lock him up at the first mention of anything supernatural related, but he finally understood that his life could offer so much more than a regular hunting job until he passed out of cardiac arrest on a hideout.

The world was his oyster and he just needed to fix the small details to be able to completely enjoy it. “I mean,” he continued, taking Miracle’s silence as an encouragement, “I could stay here and do what Bobby used to. This place has been kinda left to its own devices, even with me and Sammy living here.”

Since finding out about Mrs Butters, Dean hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the stand-by situation the bunker was under. Surely there must’ve been a different source of energy than a nice old wood nymph who had been brainwashed into working there! Maybe he could’ve found a solution to that issue next, he reminded himself. He had bigger things to deal at the moment, than getting the telescope back to its prime.

“Or maybe Cas and I could take one out of Ellen’s book and get a roadhouse. The possibilities are endless!”

The only thing he knew for sure was that he was never letting his Angel go, ever again. His future was bright and shiny, but only if Castiel agreed in sharing it with him. That was the only way Dean was getting his very well-deserved happiness.

Miracle seemed to agree with him on the topic, the way he rested his head on his lap at his words: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked, scratching behind his ears.

But the dog wasn’t as easily fooled by his distracting methods, for he pointed his snout back at the barely smaller pile of books Dean still had to work his way through.

“You’re right, you’re right. First, getting Cas back. Then, thoughts about the future, if he still stands by what he said,” he laughed, giving Miracle one last scratch before resuming his work.

Or at least that was his intention.

“What did he say?” a voice spoke from the top of the stairs, unannounced, causing Dean to jump on his feet. The chair fell behind him with a loud noise at the action, forcing Miracle to hide behind his knees in shelter. He was already moving to grab the nearest sword when he managed to catch a glimpse of who had just spoken.

“JACK!” he yelled, clutching at his chest as he tried to will his heart to go back at a human speed, “What did we say about knocking?”

The new god, to his part, had the decency to look a little bit sheepish as he went down the stairs, taking two steps in one: “Sorry!” he exclaimed, foregoing the last steps in favour of jumping them, landing straight in front of Dean.

And he couldn’t help himself but smile at him. He wasn’t expecting anyone getting back at this hour, especially not someone who didn’t use the front door, just zapping into the bunker. Sam had texted earlier, telling him that he and Eileen were going on some spontaneous adventure, and he hadn’t opened the front door in two days now, too deep in self-deprecation first and in his work later.

But having Jack back warmed his heart to no end. It was almost as if he had gotten another sign from the Universe that he was on the right path.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked, keeping his voice level, lest he betrayed his happiness at the sight of the young man. He spread his arms wide, a gesture that he had seen Bobby do million times to both he and Sam, “Come here!”

Jack practically launched at him, clinging at his back, warm and inviting.

For someone who hadn’t exactly been raised to physical affection, not since he was four at least, Dean had always loved the simplicity of a hug. He could hide his face whenever the emotions overtook him, or whenever he didn’t want anyone understanding just how nice it felt to be held. It was shameful, growing up, to feel emotions outside of fear and relief, adrenaline the only hormone that was allowed in his system. John Winchester didn’t tolerate chick moments and Dean tried desperately to fall behind him in line, ever the perfect little soldier.

He knew, rationally, that it wasn’t a normal nor a healthy reaction, but it wasn’t like he had ever had the actual time to unlearn all of the wrong messages he had been taught in his lifetime. He would have all the time in the world to unpack all of that, now that he didn’t have to fight with every supernatural being in the Universe.

Well, most of them anyway. He still had an angel to rescue.

“Why are you back here?” he finally inquired, looking Jack dead in the eyes, searching his face for any sort of distress or disarray. If he was back on earth, instead of up there, it must’ve meant something was wrong, right?

But, thankfully, that didn’t seem to be the case. “Amara is off, fixing what Chuck did to those dimensions, and she said that in the meantime I could just stay down here, live a little,” Jack said, using air quotes and a pensive face, slightly inclining his head to the side in a way that mirrored exactly Castiel’s, whenever there was something he didn’t fully understand.

How could anyone who had met both the Nephilim and the angel not see their resemblance was amusing. Jack really was his son, after all.

“Well, that is very good thinking,” he commented, unsure of what to say. Should he send the cosmic entity who had been considerably nice to him a fruit basket for letting their son stick around? Probably, once he figured how to mail it properly.

For the first time, realisation hit him. He had known Jack since before he was born, and he and Cas and Sam had all but raised him, all with different methods. He was their son, had taken so much after each of them, it was clear as day. And Dean had never been prouder.

“She said that I was still too young to rule over the Universe,” he continued, looking every bit the millennial/Gen Z that he was. He still had a lot to learn and, well, was actually just three years old. Amara had been right on her judgment.

He loved the kid, really did, but he didn’t think that trusting someone that doesn’t know how to boil an egg with the entire creation would be a good idea. “Damn right you are!” he exclaimed, moving his hands on Jack’s shoulders and clasping him tightly, one last confirmation that he was truly there, skin and bone, in front of him. “Okay, I want you to tell me everything that happened in these past days. But first. Are you hungry? Did you eat?”

Dean didn’t know if it was his second nature at this point, or if it was his own way at showing affection, but he had discovered, back when Sammy was a toddler, that food was one of his love languages. He took so much pride in the knowledge that someone he cared about could enjoy something he had cooked. And, after years on the road with only take out and quick microwavable meals in tiny dirty motel rooms, the bunker’s kitchen had been a blessing.

He had been able to experiment to his heart’s delight, making as many mistakes as he needed to learn. And now, he could proudly say that he was an excellent cook. He had gotten in knowing only how to make cereal and came out with flambé skills and an entire shelf of cookbooks he had collected over the years. Talk about personal growth.

“I’m not that hungry, thank you for asking. I am still recovering from the separation. It was a bit draining, to say the least.”

He nodded along absently, not really sure of what he should say. Thankfully for him, though, Miracle saved the day. He moved forward from his hiding place under the table, sniffing Jack’s legs before shuffling his tail excitedly. “Jack, meet Miracle. Miracle, Jack.”

Dean watched as the Nephilim kneeled down next to the dog, digging his fingers in the soft fur as he started to rub at his ears playfully. “Hello!” he exclaimed once Miracle had gotten confident enough to start licking his face in earnest.

He moved back to his seat, pulling out a chair for Jack to sit on whenever he was done playing on the floor with Miracle, his back already lamenting after hours hunched over old tomes. At the rate he was going, Dean thought with a hint of surprise, he was going to need glasses pretty soon, since he couldn’t exactly squint every morning at their cereal boxes to see whether or not they had expired yet.

As Jack went to sit next to him, Miracle following suit and putting his head on Jack’s lap, he couldn’t help himself but look at his watch. He knew, rationally, that they were somewhere in the evening realm, having already had dinner and all. It was quite shocking, realising just how late he was pushing it. Especially now that his original excitement about his research was slowly fading out, getting replaced by a tiredness that swept his bones in one quick stroke.

But, for the first time since his world had ended, Dean didn’t feel the need to drown his dreams in alcohol, conscious that good things were about to happen indeed. The sight in front of him was proof enough of that, he reminded himself as he watched fondly Jack play with Miracle, his own heart swelling a tenfold with all the affection he felt threatening to spill out of his chest.

“How long can you stay?” he asked cautiously. He didn’t want to sound rude or curt, but he was sure Jack could understand the underlying question: How long would he be able to enjoy life on Earth before having to go back upstairs, dealing with the angelic morons?

“As long as I want,” Jack replied with a smile, easing the tension off Dean’s back immediately, “Amara told me that Chuck’s mistake laid in the fact that he was making himself a writer in the world, actively changing the course of humanity to fit his desires, instead of simply living along. So, that’s what I’m going to do! Live, just like I did before all of this, like a regular human. Maybe as a hunter. If I still can.”

The way he said it, as if he was scared of a refusal, made Dean’s chest ache in pain, suddenly aware of all of the mistakes he had ever done with the kid. Unfortunately, there was no way of turning back in time, to avoid Chuck from messing with his head and make him say things he didn’t mean, but he could repent and ask for forgiveness. He could be better, if only Jack let him try.

“Of course, you can,” he stated, letting his own happiness and joy at the news reflect on his face, with a smile that Jack mirrored. The way his shoulders relaxed made relief course through Dean’s veins. “This is great news, Jack! You can finally get to be a kid, without any threat looming over. But I was thinking about the hunting thing. Maybe we could ease a little on that. What do you think about it? Go on a vacation, take a family trip somewhere with one of those single-use polaroids that always come out looking crappy?”

There was no thinking it over, no doubt crippling his head and making him question everything. He had dreamt, especially in the last few years, of retiring, getting the guns in storage and saying ‘ _Screw You’_ to Heaven and Hell, letting them deal with each other. And now, this dream could become reality.

And, judging by the blinding smile that split Jack’s face, he seemed to like the idea as well: “There are so many places we could go to! Like the Grand Canyon or in Canada. Mexico. The possibilities are endless!”

“Oh, hell yes! Mandatory step to a beach somewhere quiet, not too touristy, just toes in the sand, chilling out real good.”  
“Did you tell Sam yet?” Jack asked innocently, noticing the distinct lack of a Winchester in the bunker.  
“No, just bouncing around the thought with you, but I think Sammy’s gonna be busy on his own adventures with Eileen,” he replied, whispering the last part, like it was a secret between the two of them. His brother had all grown up now and Dean wasn’t as terrified as he once had been at the thought of separating. Not now that he had people he cared about and that cared about him back. “But we can go. You, Miracle, me and Cas?”  
Jack’s face crumpled at the mention of his other father. “But how?” he asked, voice wavering as he halted his hand from petting Miracle, “Castiel, I am not capable of…”

“Yeah, I know,” he stopped him before he could spiral down that never-ending slope. That was definitely one of Dean’s traits that he had picked up: the self-doubt that went further beyond the simple _‘check before crossing the road’_ , the overthinking that could easily become poisonous, spreading like mould and destroying his mind from the inside.   
“He’s still stuck in the Empty, probably giving them a headache as we speak,” Dean joked, hoping to ease the tension that had just been created, “I just figured that there must be a way to pull him back here, somewhere in these books. I mean, there’s literally everything here so, I’d be surprised of the contrary.”

That had been the original idea, to search and hope for something to come up. But he was past that now: he could feel it in his very soul, that there was a way to rescue his Angel, and he knew that the key to his plan laid there on that table. He had inched closer and closer to an answer throughout the day and he could practically taste it in his tongue.

“So, here’s the plan,” he explained, gesturing to the table full of books and scrambled notes, “We go to bed now, it’s getting pretty late, and, in the morning, we split all those books that I haven’t even touched yet, we get back to searching and we find a way to get Castiel back, alright? ‘Cause me and him have a little bit to talk about, with some unfinished business, to keep this PG. And then, off we go to our well-earned vacation.”

They both deserved that, Dean thought as he watched Jack’s face light up once more, excitement visible, practically vibrating on his seat.

He understood his eagerness, not really wanting to stop just yet himself, but he knew that research was better done with a clear and rested mind. And he desperately needed a good night’s sleep, after the disastrous attempts of the previous nights.

Luckily, Jack seemed to share his sentiment, suppressing a yawn with his hand, causing Dean to laugh with him as they both got up at the same time.

He clasped a hand over his shoulders, a gesture that Bobby had always used to calm him and put him at ease whenever he was younger, reminding him that he was family, and that family didn’t start with blood.

If anyone had told twenty-something years old Dean that he would share fatherhood with an angel to the Devil’s Spawn, who was actually the new god, he wouldn’t have hesitated in shooting all of his barrels at them.

“What do you say, son, you think we’ll be able to get him back?” he asked once they were in front of Jack’s room, Miracle running off to the one Castiel had taken for himself. The dog had decided, that very first day, that he was going to sleep on that bed and literally nowhere else in the entire bunker, and, so far, he had taken residence amongst the remaining trench coats and ties that Dean hadn’t moved to his own wardrobe yet.

“Yes, I think so! But. Wait, did you just call me son?” Jack asked, his expression open and hopeful.

He gave him a smile of his own, levelling his gaze with his eyes as he responded, sharing the same feeling of hope: “Yeah, I did. Can I? Or do you want me to sign official adoption papers?”  
Jack didn’t reply immediately, he remained in a seeming state of frozen, but before Dean could over analyse whatever he had done wrong, the kid had thrown his hands over his shoulders, burying himself in a hug that Dean reciprocated wholeheartedly.

He had once told Castiel that he didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.

But now, holding his son de facto as he basically radiated love and affection, both thinking of a way to get the angel out of his confinement, Dean knew that this was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important note. I am a dean coded cas girl, in case this wasn't clear enough


	4. Chapter 4

On their third day of fruitless research, he and Jack had finally managed a breakthrough in their theoretical plan, making it seem real for the first time.

They had found only pieces of scattered information in all the books they read so far, spread out text that was either incomplete or entirely wrong and false. And even when they tried to piece everything back together, nothing seemed to fit and work, leaving them both dissatisfied and discouraged.

They both knew that the Empty existed and that perished angels and demons went there, once they died, and they didn’t need some old pompous bastard telling them about the empirics of the process. What they needed was a starter, some spell that could lead them in there, a key of sorts. Anything would have been better than reading whether or not they were a material place or purely spiritual, inaccessible in both instances.

And it didn’t matter that Nick not long ago had tried a similar process, Dean was not going to fall into the same category as someone as broken and desperate and corrupted as he was. He was going to do this right, no matter how long he would have to research and study and pray.

But, still, the waiting was taking its tool.

Dean woke up that day feeling restless and anxious, guilt creeping upon his head at the thought of failing. At the rate they were going, they would not be able to pull Cas back. And the thought paralysed Dean with fear and dread.

Nevertheless, he still got out of bed and started his day, his room seeming empty without all the bottles littering the floor. It was for the best, he reminded himself the previous night before he could grab a beer or a glass of bourbon. His head was clear and worked best without the clouding liquids.

Yet, no matter which shape he was in, nothing seemed to come out on the positive side. There were too many errors, too many mistakes, too many dead ends.

Dean knew, the moment when he woke up, that both he and Jack needed a win of sorts. Or, at the very least, they needed to be productive. Which was exactly why he had gathered all his fishing equipment and loaded the Impala while he waited for Jack to get up and out of bed. For someone who literally had all the power of the Universe inside of him, his kid had definitely taken up on his own old habit of hitting snooze on his alarm at least three times. Usually, either he or Sam would have to knock on his door to get the day moving, but Dean was letting him take his time.

After all, being crumpled inside the bunker looking for a solution was becoming maddening, especially since they didn’t seem to have any luck in the matter, and some fresh air and rest might do both of them good.

When Jack got up and lit up at the prospect of a different kind of morning he hadn’t experienced yet, Dean was reminded that he shouldn’t launch himself fully in plans of rescue and revenge, as his father had done all those years back, ruining both his and Sammy’s childhoods. Life had so much more to offer and, even if it would have been perfect and ideal to share it with Castiel, he shouldn’t waste his sacrifice locking himself up and punishing himself for his inability to protect those he loved.

And so, he got Jack shotgunning and Miracle in the back seat, after a stern talk about how he didn’t want to see any barf back there, and they drove to the nearby lake. He finally got his chance at teaching his son how to hook a pole and how relaxing fishing could be, just like Bobby had done all those years prior with him.

It was one of Dean’s fondest memories: they had gotten up before the sunrise and he had helped Bobby pack their lunches, while the old man put everything in his truck; they had arrived by the lakes as the sun had just appeared, Dean shuffling deeper into his jacket to avoid the cold morning air as Bobby explained how to do everything; Dean, being the little know-it-all shit he still was, had claimed to be able to manage the pole without adult supervision and had ended up stabbing his ring finger with the hook trying to get the bait on; Bobby had had to take him to the hospital to get some ‘properly done stitches’, not like the crappy ones he used to give, even when Dean begged to stay behind by the lake, not wanting to go back home just yet. Not wanting that paradise to end.

Because, back at home was Sammy, left alone with Rufus babysitting, and, back at home, there were chores to do and work and fear. If he could, Dean would have rather stayed by the lake, no matter how selfish it made him, enjoying the cold and fresh air and freedom a little bit longer.

All he had of that day now was a very faint scar on his digit, but he would always keep the memory close to his heart.

And now, he could share his knowledge, albeit with a less clumsy kid and, hopefully, with a lot less blood and injuries.

Jack had been very responsive to his teachings, catching up quickly with his explanations, and their morning passed in a breeze, both of them returning back happily, even if they had only accomplished three fish and an old boot in between the two of them.

In the end, it had been exactly what they had needed. Once they had gotten back to the bunker, the trunk now full of all of the groceries they stopped to pick on the way back, because they ‘ _couldn’t exactly get takeout every night’_ , they both were much more invigorated and willing to focus for hours on end on the tiny, printed texts.

It was Jack who ultimately cracked the code, uplifting their spirits and restoring their hopes. He found just what they needed inside an old looking exposition on various afterlives in different cultures, in a chapter hidden between the Greek afterlife and the Persian one. The title was self-explanatory, _‘De Morte Angelorum’,_ on the death of angels, and it featured a spot-on description of the Empty, shadowy goo and all. So far in their research, they had only found walls obstructing their way, but when Jack practically jumped off his chair and leaned fully over the table to have Dean read the chapter alongside him, he could feel in his bones how right they were.

And indeed, they were right: although the author considered the Empty and the Darkness as two interchangeable things, calling them both the _Before_ in his description, the chapter gave a theoretical spell alongside the recollection of what to expect on the other side, meant to open a portal to the Empty’s dimension, which the author then proceeded to define as cold and void, that gave out a sense of claustrophobia even though there were no visual limits and borders. It made sense, for someone to not find anything when the Empty was still asleep, unbothered by thousands of millennia, with all of their inhabitants quiet as well, in their preferred state.

But now that they were wide awake and pretty perturbed, especially after the explosion, who knew?

Instead of launching himself straight into the process of drawing weird and archaic symbols with his blood then and there, Dean chose for once in his life to be cautious, retorting to sending a copy of the spell to Rowena, the Queen of Hell on his speed dial being more than welcoming with her help.

He expected a simple text back, perhaps with the modified and perfectioned spell, but she decided to surprise them, directly teleporting herself in the middle of the main room, wards be damned, telling both of them how much damage could be done by their inexperienced hands in regard to such complex magic. Both Dean and Jack took their breathe of relief as she lifted the spell from their responsibility and they immediately began to gather all the ingredients she called for; a task much more doable for the two of them.

Two hours later, they all stood at the periphery of the devil’s trap in their dungeon, putting everything into place for the spell.

It wasn’t incredibly difficult, Dean realised as he lit the candles under Rowena’s instruction. He probably could’ve done it by himself, after all the years of practice he had had, but the rational part of his brain told him that it was best this way.

The chances of the spell working were higher now that she was there, as well as the chances of both him and Cas getting out of the Empty alive. And no matter how much it bruised his ego to ask for help, some early notion that was knocked into his brain about weakness and failure rearing its ugly head at him, Dean knew that he was doing the right thing. He wouldn’t take a chance at this, not with Castiel’s life on the line.

Rowena had told Jack to stand by, ready to intervene with his godly powers if something went south, even though he had no jurisdiction in the Empty’s dimension, but Dean could feel in his heart that nothing would’ve gone wrong. He was getting his Angel back and nothing could’ve stopped him anymore.

And for Rowena, she had claimed to only remain as assistance, simply checking that Dean didn’t trip on the watered-down blood marking around the bowl and on the floor, and ruined her painstaking work.

In reality, they all knew why Rowena was dead set on staying there, nervously contorting her hands as Dean bandaged his hand, making sure not a single drop was out of place: other than it being a rather complicated and interesting rite, probably one of a kind, if it did work, it would mean being able to bring back to the world of the living not only Cas, but all those celestial and infernal beings that they had lost during the years and wars. The possibilities were endless, especially for the Queen of Hell who was still mourning the loss of her son.

As Rowena had begun to instruct him on what he was supposed to do and what they were supposed to expect, Dean couldn’t stop his mind from wandering: would he have to bargain with the cosmic entity that had his Angel prisoner? Would they be able to have a quiet little chat before they went to sleep, giving Castiel back freely? Would he make it out alive?

But he didn’t have time to bury himself in doubt and fears, not when he could still hear Billie beating down that very same door. It was his turn now, to go fully on Depeche Mode on the Empty, knocking on their doors and taking back his hard-earned respite.

Instead, he chose to focus on her voice, calm and collected, as she explained in which order he was supposed to put the ingredients inside the bowl and when he needed to speak. She had told him that she would be able to do the spell herself, the risk of failing decidedly less daunting, but Dean had declined her offer: he was content playing the guinea pig, experimenting on his own skin, risking his own ass on the line, if it meant getting the love of his life back, alive and untouched.

Thus, he set foot in the black ring, careful not to ruin the barely dried blood on the floor. He could immediately feel the energy sweep through his body, an ancient power awakening the closer he got to the bowl.

He could taste it in the air, the electricity that seemed to permeate the room as he took his bandaged hand and grasped the first ingredient of the process, eager to begin and get this over with at the same time.

But, of course, when had things gone right for Dean Winchester?

Before he had even had the chance to drop the purple root into the basin, the door to the dungeon busted open, Sam panting as he leaned on it with a panicked expression written all over his face.

His eyes scanned the room, zeroing on the mixing bowl and the pentagram before landing on Dean, questions visible in his eyes even from the distance.

“Heya Sammy!” he exclaimed, unsure of what to do. He knew that, if he got outside of the blood inscriptions on the floor or even messed them slightly, they would have to start all over, as Rowena had yelled at them multiple times to not get inside until everything was ready. And he also knew that now that he had grabbed the first ingredient, he couldn’t put it down without ruining his chances at the spell.

And so, there he stood, arm awkwardly raised in a position that was becoming more and more uncomfortable by the minute, his back turned to be able to see his brother’s reddening face from his periphery.

“Don’t you ‘ _Heya Sammy!’_ me!” he retorted back, storming inside, Eileen in tail, looking sheepish as she signed her hello. He was visibly distraught, understandably so, yet Dean couldn’t care less. For the first time in days, he had an actual shot at getting his happiness back and, even if he loved his little brother with all his being and had always put him first in everything, he was going to ignore Sam’s little tantrum if it meant continuing his plan to get to Castiel.

“I leave for a couple of days and you start summoning cosmic entities without me?” he asked, affronted, as if he already knew the entirety of Dean’s plan. Which he had never divulged, conscious of his brother’s reaction.

He had been right, of course, seeing how terrified and ready to throw everything in the air he looked. “Okay, who called you?” he inquired, looking directly at Jack.

The kid might have had his heart in the right place in doing so, but Dean also knew that he had kept their research to himself as well, not wanting to bother Sam in his idyllic and relaxing getaway. They had talked about it, after all, a couple of nights before as they waited in line for their take-out pizzas, and Jack had been the one to suggest secrecy.

Indeed, the kid rose his hands up, freezing them in the air under Dean’s accusatory gaze: “I only said I was back, for good this time!” he said, turning his head from Dean to Sam and vice versa, unsure of what to do.   
“Which is why we got back,” Sam explained, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing him in a tight hug, still eyeing Dean suspiciously, “but I wasn’t expecting to find books all over the main room and blood everywhere!”.

Dean tried to count to ten, to keep his temper at check, but he was getting tired of all the useless drama that his brother was creating. There wasn’t ‘ _blood_ _everywhere’_ , after all, just a couple of splashes in the kitchen, where he and Jack had to prepare the ingredients! All he wanted to do was finish the spell before their rabbit’s bone disintegrated and get his Angel back with him, where he belonged. Besides, his arm was beginning to ache and bother him, which he gladly took as a sign to speed up the deal.

“Hey Eileen, sorry if I don’t hug you but I’m in the middle of something and if I move, I’ll have to start all over,” he told her, bypassing his giant brother, who looked progressively more offended by the minute. She merely signed back a quick ‘ _no problem’_ , his own ASL rusty but getting better with all the practice he did.

They were at an impasse now, Sam still standing his ground pouting, Jack frozen in doubt and Dean, well, getting impatient by the second. Luckily for all of them, Rowena decided to step in, grabbing Sam’s arm and pulling him back from the circle of blood they had spent hours to perfectly draw on the floor. “Samuel,” she called, her voice a calming presence that commanded respect and that made sure she was always heard, “maybe you could deal with your fears of being left out later?”  
Unfortunately, she had the opposite effect than intended. Sam violently yanked his arm out of her hold, furiously pointing at her tiny frame: “You called Rowena and not me? What even is this!”

“Rowena’s the best witch in the world, of course I called her!” Dean yelled back, careful with his movements, lest of all he ruined their meticulous work, “And we’re gonna get Cas back, if that pleases your majesty!”

He knew that he was being unfair and salty, but couldn’t care. Sam had gotten everything he had ever wanted, with little to no consequences, and now he had also found Eileen, who was amazing and incredible and perfect for him. And he knew, deep down, that he shouldn’t have been envious of their relationship, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from comparing them with him and Cas, who never even had the chance to happen freely.

And there he was, his brother, his best friend, his family, trying to talk him out of his very well deserved shot at happiness.  
“Dean,” he started, inching closer to the circle on the floor, as if he was slowly approaching a wounded animal. He thought that the comparison wasn’t that far off, given the circumstances. “I get it, I miss him too, but if Jack’s not powerful enough to do it… It’s risky, have you really thought about the consequences? Don’t you remember what happened when Nick tried to summon someone out of there?”

He scoffed at that. Had he, the champion at spiralling down an endless slope of doubt, thought about the consequences? Granted, he had decided not to dwell much on the chance that this might be incredibly useless and vain, or to think about the worst-case scenario in which he succeeded in rescuing his love, only to be faced with rejection.

Nevertheless, he had thought about all of the possibilities, deciding that the fortuitous outcome was going to beat every single downside. And, even if he did die, at least he would’ve been able to see his smile once more.

“Of course, I have! Have you met me? And I would never get a spell second-hand from someone who got possessed by the Devil, I’m better than that!” he replied, losing his internal battle about maintaining calm and poise, and all but screaming at his brother, arm still raised up, ready to begin the chant one way or another. “I am 90% overthinking, Sammy. Trust me, I know what I’m doing!”

Sam’s eyes softened at that, as if he was just now beginning to understand Dean’s situation. He still doubted, especially with all that was unspoken between him and his Angel, but the sentiment warmed him up still. The knowledge, at the back of his head, that his brother might approve and accept him, if he only was brave enough to share his part.

However, he still stood his ground, trying to convey his fears as best as he could: “I trust you! But are you sure this is what Cas would want? You risking your life to bring him back? You could die, Dean! We don’t even know if this spell works!”  
“Since when are you so fiscal about those sorts of things?”  
“I’m serious!”  
“So am I,” he yelled back, uncaring if he would have to start all over with the spell. He turned around, as carefully as he could, and looked his brother dead in the eye. ‘ _You can always back down,_ ’ his brain reminded him, but he was done hiding. He had kept himself hidden all of his life, always pretending to be fine, always pretending to be normal, always pretending to be straight, to not like both. He had always done whatever he had to in order to survive, in a world that didn’t look kindly at him, with a father that wasn’t nice about this sort of things.

But now? Now he wanted to live, fully, openly, happily. He was done burying himself. Not just for Castiel, although he was a very good encouragement. He deserved to be recognised as himself, not just a little soldier to John’s plans or a pawn in the wars with Heaven and Hell.

And so, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, he let go of his most guarded secret.

“You don’t get it, Sam. I don’t care about the risk, not anymore and definitely not about this. I haven’t in a while, but now it’s for a different reason. I know this is going to work, it has to! And I don’t give a single flying fuck about dying, because I cannot fathom living in a world where Cas’ dead. The Empty took him from me, I didn’t even have the time to tell him I loved him back, that he was gone forever! I had to stay right here and watch the man I love get taken away from me, after years of keeping my mouth shut because I couldn’t believe he felt the same and because I couldn’t let myself risk his friendship and because I was afraid of everything. So, pardon me for trying to get him back.”

There. After years of keeping his secret, never letting it be known by anyone, denying it himself, scared shitless of the consequences, he was out. Easy, right?

More like petrifying.

Dean couldn’t lower his eyes, focusing on the storm of different emotions he could read on his brother’s face. There was surprise there, understanding, sadness. The mix was overwhelming, but none of it mattered at the moment. Dean simply stood his ground, bracing himself for the inevitable pain, both physical and mental.

After all, being raised under John Winchester meant zero tolerance for those that were different, queer, unnatural in their world already so fucked up. Those poisonous teachings didn’t go away easily, as he had experienced on his own skin. And, even if Sam was the smart one, the one that got out, even for a little, the one who got to go to college and live his life, that didn’t mean anything.

The silence in the room was terrifying, nerve-wracking. Dean could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, fast and relentless, as if it was almost ready to jump out of his chest. Yet, nobody dared to utter a word, all eyes focused on Sam.

And his little brother was looking at him, his eyes swelling as he moved, careful of the dried blood in between them, towards Dean, who flinched visibly as Sam’s hand went to rest on his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. He stopped breathing, unbelieving of what had just happened, as his eyes closed involuntarily, blocking the tears in their path before they managed to escape.

Years. He had wasted years hiding from those that loved him and that cared about him unconditionally.

But he wouldn’t commit the same mistake twice.

“How can I help? What do you need?” Sam asked, voice soft and fragile, so utterly breakable. The tears were running freely down his face and Dean was desperately blinking back his own, his goal clear as day in his mind.

Yet, Dean couldn’t speak, not just yet, not when his deepest fears were proven irrational and fake. He wasn’t really sure he’d be able to talk anytime soon, his throat closing as he choked up on his unshed tears, on his unspoken words.

Instead, it was Rowena who spoke for him: “We’re all set darling,” she said, taking Sam’s arm in hers and nodding along to Dean, her eyes shining with pride, “stay here with me and let your brother be.”

He just bowed his head, swallowing down all his fears as he walked back to the bowl, ready to get his Angel back.

And, finally throwing the goddamned piece of beetroot that he had almost clumped in his hand into the bowl, he began his chant, with only one thought occupying his mind: _“Castiel, I’m coming.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depeche Mode has a song called Death's door, which is very fitting for this!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's summary is "take your fucking twink and get the fuck out of here!"

None of them had been sure about what would happen once the spell was completed. Rowena had only theorised of different possible scenarios, but there was only one way to find out whether or not she was right.

Would a portal appear, open up and lead him into the Empty, acting as a door to another dimension? Would he disappear and magically get transported there, wherever there was? Would he be alone, or would the Shadow take on someone’s form just to taunt him?

In the end, all it took him was a single blow to put out the last candle, just like he had been instructed, as the bowl ignited itself and a blue fire began to burn all of his ingredients. He closed his eyes, silently begging the entire universe for mercy, uncaring if he was answered or if he would have to fend for himself, like he always had, and, when he finally opened them, all he could see was darkness, surrounding him, suffocating him.

Dean tried to turn around on himself, but his legs were frozen, almost trapped on the ground. Yet, he didn’t think there was any ground to begin with. There was nothing there, nothing to be felt, nothing to be seen. Only the Empty.

“The famous Dean Winchester,” a voice called from everywhere and nowhere at once. And, sure enough, in front of him, they appeared, seated on top of a throne, towering over him menacing and welcoming at the same time, a paradox that shouldn’t have been possible.

One moment prior, there was only darkness, a cold void, but now a beam of light illuminated the cosmic entity in front of him.

He had tried not to think too much about which form they would have taken, once he would confront them. His sleep had been plagued with images of them wearing Castiel’s face, just to torment him. Or perhaps, they would choose one of the demons or angels he had killed in cold blood, taunting him with their cold and familiar faces.

And, while the sight of her did bring conflicting memories, when Dean saw Meg’s face, even after all of those years, he felt calm and clear-headed. He was not going to lose his temper, not this time. Not with something as important as Castiel’s fate.

“It’s peculiar,” the Shadow said, not moving from their throne, simply looking down at him as if he was nothing but a noisy ant. He assumed the paragon was appropriate, all things considering. “I know so much about you, from all the memories I’ve absorbed throughout the years, it almost feels like we have met already.” They didn’t look malicious, but he had learnt from past experiences that just because a powerful supernatural entity didn’t look threatening, that didn’t mean they were friendly.

Besides, they were literally someone they had just recently screwed over and, while it was entirely Billie’s fault, he still had to share the blame and make his own amends, Dean reasoned as he slowly approached them.

He had known from both Castiel and Jack that the Shadow could take on different faces of those that populated them, but they had somehow settled on Meg Master’s, for whatever reason. Truth to be told, Dean’s blood did start to boil when Cas recounted that little detail. He still hadn’t forgotten the short-lived affair between the angel and the demon and, while he could make absolutely no claim of his own, he was still jealous of what they had.

Perhaps, he wondered now, if he had revealed his true colours all those years back, they would be in a different situation now.

But he didn’t have time to cry over spilled milk, not when he was quite literally alone in enemy territory, bargaining for his Angel’s life.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he said once he had reached their dais, cranking his neck up to maintain eye contact with the cosmic being that could wipe him off the face of the Universe as if it was nothing.

They simply leaned forward, peering down at him with curiosity, rooting Dean on the spot. He doubted that he would be able to move freely with their gaze on, scrutinizing his every breath. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. I assume you’re here for a reason, aren’t you?”  
‘ _Now or Never,_ ’ Dean thought, marvelling at the fact that he hadn’t lost his bravado and courage yet. He had defeated the undefeatable, after all, he knew how to keep his nerves in check.

At least, when his heart wasn’t on the line.

“Yes. I…” he began saying, but the Shadow simply raised their hand, silencing him on the spot.

“I already know what you want,” they taunted him, mocking him in his needy state. He couldn’t really blame them: how many times had he been the one in the position of power, holding leverage out of reach because his father had told him to or because his goals called for it? His Machiavellian approach at life had always put him in tight spots, blurring the line between good and bad, but it was this unfortunate upbringing that, at the end of the day, had kept him alive and still kicking.

The Shadow simply continued to tease him, from up on their throne, “I’ve known for a while,” they whispered, twirling a hand around and suddenly making appear light all around them. Dean was momentarily blinded, moving his hand to shield his eyes as the brightness overpowered his senses, but, still, from his periphery he could see colours swirling around and consolidate on a screen of sorts, running around him in a circle.

In there, the pictures were clear as day. For the Empty was showing him Castiel’s face, everywhere, from all of the 11 and more years of friendship and partnership they had shared. Dean could recognise all of the moments that were on display for him: from the first time in the barn, when Cas had appeared out of nowhere with his celestial powers, calmly letting him know who he was despite just being stabbed; to the awful moment when he told him he was going to go on a date, shotgun in the Impala and unbuttoning his shirt after spending the afternoon together. Dean’s heart broke in that moment, never mending right, because here was Cas, finally human, finally able to have human emotions, to experience them just as much and as hard as Dean could.

And he was already moving away from him. Not that he blamed him, who would choose someone as broken and devastated as him?

He realised, in that tiny window of time, as he saw Castiel get out of the car towards the house, that he could lose him, if he spoke up about what he felt; that no matter what, he would not reciprocate, even when he had the ability to do so, whether because he wasn’t attracted to him or because Dean wasn’t worthy of his love. Both answers seemed correct and Dean had to force himself to remain sober that night, still on a hunt, still with work to do.

And he decided that he would be fine, that he would just need to keep his mouth shut, his feelings locked in tight, as he had done for so long. Just because he had a tiny crush on his former angelic best friend, it didn’t mean that it should be spoken about. For all Dean knew, the feeling might be fleeting, might pass as easily as it had come.

But it hadn’t appeared out of nowhere, his deep love for his Angel. He thought it might’ve been there since the moment they met in Hell, when Castiel had rebuilt his soul from scraps, seeing him in his most vulnerable and pitiful state. And Cas had stuck around after that, giving him hope that he might not be alone in his feelings, that he might be lovable.

Yet he kept his silence, for everything was better than losing him over something so stupid like romance. After all, he knew better than to risk his neck telling people how he truly felt, who he truly was and was not. Why admitting to something that might be your doom anyway, right?

It hurt to think about how much time they had wasted with their foolishness.

He turned his head as much as he could, his feet still locked in place, unmoving, able to see Cas’ face all around him as the Shadow just laughed from their throne, undoubtedly enjoying his spectacle of pain and regret. “You should see his memories, all the times he thought you didn’t love him. Oh, just how perfect it was! It’s a shame that angels and demons don’t relieve their lives when they’re here, asleep, I’d have so much to torture him with!”

Dean looked up at them with wide eyes, terrified and relieved at the same time. He had always thought that a perpetual sleep would have been better for someone like him, with a soul weighted by as many horrors and ghosts as he was. There was mercy in oblivion.

“You want him back so much, don’t you?” the Shadow asked viciously, smiling down at him as they snapped their fingers, making the images disappear, the quietness replaced with sounds of agony, terror and screaming. Dean fell to his knees, clutching his ears unsuccessfully: the sounds were directly in his mind, slowly breaking down his brain as he tried to understand what was happening all around him.

A memory of similar screaming appeared in his head, something that inhabited his nightmares and his deepest fears.

He wanted to yell back at the cosmic entity, to make them stop with whatever they were doing, but no sound came out. His throat burned and his eyes watered down, as all he could do was stay put on the cold ground, begging to whoever might be listening in this pocket of space for the pain to stop. But, Dean reminded himself, no one was listening. Not even Jack, his son, the most powerful being in the entire creation, who was behind in the bunker, whose powers were still unknown and uncontrollable, and who had absolutely no jurisdiction there.

He was alone and desperate and in pain.

‘ _This_ ,’ he thought, as his mind felt on fire and under ice simultaneously, ‘ _this is punishment for thinking I’d be enough to get Cas back._ ’

Then, just as quickly as it had come, the noise stopped, leaving his mind disoriented as the Shadow laughed from up above, clearly enjoying the vision of human weakness and suffering. “Do you want to know what that was?” they asked, curiously eyeing Dean as he struggled to get up on his feet.

Apparently, even in alternate universes where no human could stay, his knees were still weak and fragile as they were on Earth.

He didn’t have to answer, the Shadow just kept on staring him down, as if challenging him to stand his ground. And he knew better than to fall for the traps of someone as ancient and as powerful as them, at least not again.

“That was what happened after your little plan with the new Death backfired and I took the blunt!”  
“It was all Billie’s scheme! We were only pawns, just like you,” he said, his voice still shaking and recovering from what he had to witness. If those screams came from the Empty themselves, or, rather, from their inhabitants, it meant that among those voices there was also his Angel, yelling out in pain and agony, suffering because of him. Because he had sacrificed himself to save _Dean_ , not the Universe, not anyone else, but only him.

It was his fault, and he would have willingly taken his place in a heartbeat. But before he was able to suggest the exchange, he would have to convince the Shadow to listen to him.

Which didn’t seem very doable, especially not when they shouted at him, causing him to stumble back on shaky legs: “Do not put yourself on the same level as me, child. I am old. And tired. Besides, do I look like I care about your excuses?”

For once in his life, Dean managed to keep his mouth shut, to bite down the retort that was just at the tip of his tongue, ready to get out and get him killed. He simply listened to their monologue, as the Shadow kept on talking, resuming a seemingly calm appearance. But he didn’t let their presence fool him, remaining vigilant to their every shift in pitch, in posture. Too many times he had forgotten just how volatile and fickle all of those cosmic entities he had dealt throughout his life were, and more than once he and his brother had risked their necks dealing with the consequences of their ignorance.

“You see,” they continued, adjusting themselves on the throne, looking more regal than before, even when clad in old leather with the last face a demon wore before her death, “before, it was quiet here! I could sleep all I wanted, undisturbed! Then, your little angel came and was rudely subsequentially awoken, waking me up alongside him. And I had to kick him out, hoping that afterwards, all would’ve come back as it was before. And I was mistaken. I should have forced him to fall asleep like all the others, because that pesky little friend of yours was my downfall. The new Death took the opportunity to begin her plans and, with me awake, they could do all they wanted. She used me as a hideout for the Nephilim and when shit hit the fan and her plan was ruined, they dumped him here. I took all the blunt from the impact and now almost every single angel and demon that has ever died is awake, screaming. You understand, why I am visibly upset, don’t you?”

Dean was speechless. They had thought that the explosion caused the Empty to just shut down, close their doors and barricade inside. No one could’ve predicted this outcome.

They had every right to be upset, to get their vengeance in every way they could, to demand his head on a spike, since it was all his fault that Jack hadn’t gone full-blown on Chuck’s sorry ass. And he had just waltzed right in, with a demand nevertheless, instead of begging on his knees and asking for forgiveness.

“I…” he began, unable to find words adequate to express just how minuscule and powerless he felt. He couldn’t exactly apologise and be done with it, not this time, and he didn’t think he’d receive a single slap on his wrist, all forgotten, once he did.  
The Shadow simply raised a hand, silencing him on the spot with their frozen gaze: “Don’t. I don’t care about answers or excuses, those are not going to get my peace back!” They leaned back on their throne, legs crossed, and fingers twirled in the air, seemingly lost in thought.  
“What do you want me to do?”

He couldn’t fathom a world in which he, the pathetic, broken and useless son of John Winchester, would be able to resolve the issues of a cosmic being, but he had done pretty much the unthinkable in his lifetime. And, if anything, Dean Winchester was bold and brave, albeit stupid at times. Therefore, he asked, eager to do anything, just to know that Castiel was safe.  
“What are you willing to do?” they asked eventually, staring off into an invisible distance, indistinguishable from the rest of the darkness and nothingness that engulfed them. One thing Dean knew, for sure, their name was spot on. “How far would you go to save the one you love? You’re so in love with the angel Castiel and he reciprocates so much, it is the reason for both your demises! It’s poetic, don’t you agree? He saved you and he damned himself in doing so. And now, here you are! Standing in front of me with all your tiny might, bold enough to ask for him back. Tell me, Dean Winchester, Messenger of God’s destruction. At what extreme will you throw yourself, to get your angel back?”

He stared at their eyes, open and wide. He had never felt so naked and vulnerable than there and then, under their inquiring gaze. “I would do anything,” he declared, his voice steady and sound. There were no doubts in his mind about it: whatever destiny he would have to face, whatever horrors would torment him for eternity, he would do it immediately, without regrets.

“Anything? Even remaining here, alone, forever, unable to die and to go into your Heaven, forever lost?”  
“Yes.”  
They laughed openly at his answer, as if in disbelief with his reaction. He doubted that anyone who had ever met him would be though, he did have a knack for self-sacrificing himself at any possible moment in time, even when he didn’t have anything to bargain. Of course he would destroy himself, for the prospect of his Angel’s safety.

“Oh my. You really are lost without him,” they exclaimed, as if overridden with a sudden burst of joy, “Good. I’m feeling very generous. You see, all I want is to go back to sleep, I don’t care about anything else. So, I’m going to make you a deal. Appropriate, don’t you agree? Well, I will give Castiel back to you, freely nevertheless! Not a single drop of your, whatever it is that you can put on the table, required. And I will chuck in also every single angel and demon that is awake, bothering me. Do you know just how annoying and loud they are? Which means all of those that died before the explosion that your Nephilim brought me like a present. You understand that that is a big number, don’t you? That’s how generous I am.”  
All Dean could do was stare back at them, shocked. He couldn’t wrap his head around their words. He could not believe what he had just heard.

“What’s the catch?” he asked. There must have been one, perhaps the entire Earth would perish for it, maybe he would stay in there, locked up. Something must give, he reminded himself. No one gave anything for free, especially not skittish powerful beings older than time itself.

The Shadow was just amused with his reaction, fanning over him as if he was a panicked infant, whose confusion and dread brought them happiness.  
“Straight to the point. Or should I say bi to it? I have to admit, human humour is amusing! Whatever. All I ask back, is to keep Castiel’s grace, for a couple of reasons. He will return to Earth as a human, with you, his beloved, while all the others will appear either in Hell or in Heaven or wherever, I don’t care about those anyway. They are all so loud and rude.”  
“Why? I’m not gonna complain, but why?”

They leaned back on their throne once more, regarding their nails as if they were the most important thing in creation, as if the fate of countless angels and demons wasn’t important. “Because I want to go back to sleep knowing that I will never see you or your angel ever again!” they stated, snapping once again their fingers to show Dean another one of his memories. Another one of his nightmares.

On the non-existent walls appeared an image that made his heart ache with pain: him on his knees, staring frozen at Castiel’s corpse, wondering just what he was supposed to do now that he was gone. The memory was from a couple of years before, yet the pain was still fresh, the wound reopened recently again.

The Shadow, clearly aware of what that picture was doing to him, kept on talking, shaking Dean to his core and unveiling notions that he could have not even conceived: “Here! It all started when _you_ prayed to him, waking him up with your incessant laments. Don’t make that face, what? You thought it had been the Nephilim? Only him? No, Dean, he just helped a little, sort to say, with that magic powers of his. No, this had to do with the ‘ _profound_ _bond’_ that you two shared. Such an annoying little thing.”

With a wave of their hand, the image was gone, and Dean could only stare helplessly at them, unsure of what to say. Was the profound bond he and Castiel shared really powerful enough to do something that grand, in a place where magic didn’t work?

“Now, you understand why Castiel cannot remain an angel,” they just stated, a matter of fact, a non-negotiable point in their contract.

Dean wondered how he would react at the news: one thing was for Dean to sacrifice himself, giving his own life up for Castiel’s; another was putting something that was so fundamentally Cas’, his angelic grace, his very being, up for debate. He remembered all those years prior, when the angels had fallen and when he had become mortal, a shell of who he used to be.

But, he thought sadly, that behaviour might have had something to do with his own reaction. He had been the one to kick him out of the bunker when he was in need. He had told him that he was not going to hunt with them, not without his angelic powers. He had been an asshole, for no apparent reason, and he had hated himself for it, blaming his irrational actions on his crush on the angel. He thought that some time apart would have done him good, letting himself lose focus and interest, diving into all sort of things that were not Castiel.

He had been so incredibly mistaken; he had thought in the same moment he realised how deeply his feelings ran. His wasn’t just a crush on some untouchable celestial being so far out of his league he couldn’t see him properly.

He was in love, so much it did hurt more than a thousand cuts dripped in salt and lime and ready to be dunked in tequila. And the pain was so sweet, because he still kept on having Cas in his life, even when he was wretched and gloomy.

And now, he could recognise his actions, always so foreign, so wrong to him, for what they truly had been: the writer hating on his very own favourite character in the story, a ploy for Chuck to keep him miserable and in check, predictable, manipulable.

“He will live a mortal life, he will die a mortal death, the entire package deal. And the best part is that I will never see him again. Because, if I do, I will destroy your precious planet myself. Did I make myself clear enough?” the Shadow asked, pulling him out of his spiralling mind.

But that wasn’t his choice to make: years before, he had told Castiel that he would have him, cursed or not, and the sentiment still stood. Human or angel, there was no Universe in which Dean wouldn’t have loved Castiel no matter what. Who could tell if the feeling would and could be shared?

Would Castiel hate him for eternity for bargaining with something that wasn’t his? Would he be able to find a spell of sorts to restore his grace, when he asked for it back?

All unanswerable questions swarmed in his head and Dean just hoped he was enough for him, that he could be enough for his Angel. He gathered all his courage as he tried to ground himself, his mind full of images of Castiel smiling at him, drawing strength and comfort in the knowledge that they might be reunited soon. And then he whispered his strangled “ _Yes_ ,” barely audible despite the complete silence of the room they were in. If it could be considered a room.  
“Very well.” The Shadow snapped their fingers once more as another blinding light appeared, smaller than the previous one. It was a tiny glow on the floor, right next to where Dean stood, that slowly enlarged and morphed into features he knew all too well.

There was his Angel, profoundly sleeping, perfect and untouched and relaxed.

Dean immediately rushed to his side, kneeling on the cold floor uncaring of his aching bones, hand hovering over him, afraid to touch and ruin whatever chance he had at happiness. Whatever chances they had at life. His body was locked in tight by doubt, creeping on his sternum.

He realised for the first time in his life, just why Orpheus had turned around: fear was taking hold of him, not just at the knowledge that he would never live again until he could see in his deep blue eyes, until he could hear his low voice, more soothing than any balm; he was terrified at the thought of wasting Castiel’s shot at a life he deserved, definitely more than him, he was terrified at the knowledge that he was bargaining with a chip that wasn’t his, with something he could never understand.

He was petrified at the thought that Castiel might hate him, for what he had done.

Not that he could actually blame him, not when he hated himself despite all of his Angel’s reassurances. It would be fitting, he realised, after years he would finally cross his Angel’s boundaries, driving him away in the effort to pull him closer.

“You’re not actually thinking about it, are you?” the Shadow crooned from high above, too interested in the little spectacle that was happening down below, almost as if they could see Dean’s internal turmoil.

“How can I trust you?”

There was the million-dollar question. He had dealt with one too many entities that did everything out of their own sick and twisted pleasure, for their own entertainment and amusement. How could he, a simple human being, be sure that he would walk away untouched, with his love in his arms, safe at last?

“It’s in my best interests that I never see his pretty face, nor yours. Now, go! Take your fucking twink and get the fuck out of here!” they yelled, making another light appear out of nowhere, this time in a shape that vaguely resembled a doorway. Dean grabbed Cas’ right shoulder, momentarily stopping himself at the action when he remembered a similar gesture, mirrored, imprinted forever on his skin.

He hoisted Castiel onto his arms, his back screaming internally at him and his bones creaking, yet he didn’t care about any of that. He lifted him up and all but ran towards the portal, hoping that the other side would be somewhere reachable.

They were so close he could practically taste the air, such a stark contrast with the nothingness of the Empty.

And, with one final leap of faith, Dean let the light engulf them, Castiel carefully nested in his arms, safe and sound and where he was meant to be, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here goes the Orpheus and Eurydice!! Plus, is it really a destiel fic if you don't quote something from Twist and shout? *winks badly*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, life caught up and so did my failing mental health

When Dean had finally crossed the blinding portal, carefully holding Cas in his arms, he had no idea whatsoever of where the Shadow would have sent them.

For all he knew, their magic could have made them jump straight into the freezing oceanic waters of the Bermuda Triangle, to drown and perish at the bottom of the sea with no one around to rescue them. Or, perhaps, they’d be thrown in an active volcano, à la Smeagol on Mount Doom.

The possibilities were endless and the only limit, when it came to dealing with voluble and pesky supernatural beings, was someone’s imagination and, when it came down to horrific, painful, and weird ways to die, Dean Winchester had quite literally experienced them all first-hand. He had been tortured, drowned, shot, poisoned by tacos and even killed by a falling piano. There was no possible death that he hadn’t already crossed in his personal list.

Besides, he reasoned calmly as he walked through the tunnel of light, his eyes squinting to avoid going blind, even if they did end up at the bottom of the ocean, with only fish for company, singing sea shanties with sharks and whales to pass the time, he really doubted they’d stay down there long enough to become one with the seabed. Not with Jack still being all godly and powerful, and not with Rowena around, on their side.

Still, Dean felt the nerves clutch his stomach the more he thought about what had just happened. He had been in the Empty for no longer than half an hour, chatting amicably with an entity that could have easily killed him without a second thought, but he didn’t really know how much time had passed in the real world.

For all he knew, the short conversation he had had with the Shadow could have lasted days, months, seconds. Like in Heaven and Hell, time could have moved differently in the Empty, one heartbeat could last a century, a blink of his eyes could have caused him aeons wasted. Who knew if the Bunker would still stand once he had crossed, if his brother was still alive, if Heaven had frozen over, while he was away bargaining for his love.

Luckily for his sanity, though, he stepped right into the same watered down, bloody circle that he had left not long before, on the opposite side of his initial stance. Relief permeated his entire being as the light behind him faded and disappeared completely, closing off the Empty, hopefully for forever.

While Dean was certain that the experience would never leave his nightmares completely, recurring over and over to remind him of his deepest regrets, at least they were officially cut off from them, all human, to begin or finish with. Besides, knowing those in charge both upstairs and downstairs must have its privileges, right?

So, finally, Dean took in the room they had just appeared in; no one seemed to have moved since he had left, when he disappeared right in front of them, which gave him hope that the number of days he had feared were gone by, had yet to pass. Jack was still sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, nervously chewing on the plastic ends of the strings of his grey hoodie, a hand-me-down that Dean himself had passed on the kid a few years back; his complete attention was focused on the ball of fur that rested over his lap, Miracle laying on him, seemingly asleep, as Jack petted him absentmindedly. Rowena was seated at the edge of the devil’s trap, ever the Queen, her posture perfect, outwardly unfazed by her surroundings, if it wasn’t for her gaze, fixed on the flaming bowl that Dean had lit up before vanishing off their collective sights. It was now going out slowly, being put out by some invisible force, as she watched it apprehensively. Sam and Eileen stood nearby as well, leaning against a bookcase with Sam fretting with his hands, an action that Dean hadn’t seen him do in such a long time, not since they were children anxiously waiting for their father’s return, and Eileen rubbing soothing circles on his arm and back, comforting him and silently assuring him that everything would be alright.

Dean had to admit that they made a very pretty picture and he almost wished he had his phone at hand, snapping on the camera to make the memory of their reactions last longer. If given the chance, he would have definitely commissioned a portrait of their faces, all worried about his safety.

It was comforting, knowing that he had a family he cared about and that cared about him, so at odds with all that he had imagined in his future.

Not bad for someone who didn’t think they’d reach 30, right?

But, although the sentiment was there, linked with the ability to forever mock his brother over his frowning, he didn’t even have the time to cross over the blinding portal that his knees gave out as they all collectively jumped up in his aid. He had finally crashed down after all the excitement and fear and happiness and dread of the previous days, for the first time in his life feeling each and every one of his years resting on his back.

Jack and Sam rushed immediately at his side with sounds of surprise, easing his fall as best as they could, Castiel still clutched tight in his arms. He doubted that he would ever let him go anytime soon and he hoped that the feeling was mutual.

They had wasted too much time pretending and pining in silence and Dean wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

He had always longed for a normal life, one of those that populated the magazines and tv shows, incompatible with the harsh reality they lived in, with their picket fences and apple pies on the windowsill, and, when he had had the chance to shoot his shot all those years back, it had backfired miserably.

Yet, somehow, he didn’t think history would repeat itself on him, not with Cas by his side, not again. He finally had someone that understood the life, that understood the dangers and perils. That understood _him,_ for who he truly was, broken pieces and all. Cas knew everything about him, he had literally rebuilt him atom from atom all those years back, when he rescued him from perdition. He was the only person in the world he was comfortable around, from sharing the horror stories from his childhood and to telling him his favourite things, no matter how bizarre or embarrassing they were.

Hell, he had even told the angel how he sometimes liked to put on Taylor Swift on shuffle and just feel, only to be met with a simple nod of his head and a murmured ‘ _Lizzo’_ , when Sam had inevitably walked in the main room, ruining their moment like he always did.

For too long he had hidden himself to make others comfortable, to avoid conflict, making himself small and invisible, never taking too much space. But now, it was his turn to live, to explore the world in ways he had never dared to, to be as loud as he wanted and as quiet as he needed, with his Angel by his side.

If he still wanted him, after everything that happened.

He supposed he had Cas to thank for his sudden burst of courage and confidence. If it wasn’t for him, Dean would still be the same asshole he had always been, a womaniser, a drunk that didn’t care about who he hurt with his blunt tongue and sharp words. Yet, Dean knew his Angel wouldn’t take any credit for that. He would just nod his head in recognition, saying something along the lines of ‘ _you had the ability to change on your own’_ or _‘I’m proud of you for being able to recognize progress and achieve it’_.

Yes, Cas was cheesy like that, but so was Dean, deep down. And now, that he didn’t have to care about the world full time, that he could breathe and relax without having to worry about life and death, he finally could explore the side of him that he had always kept under lock and key, inside the deepest and darkest corners of his closet.

He could be happy, calm, free.

The only thing missing from his paradise on Earth, now, was Cas.

He could see it in his mind: the angel, stirring and waking up in his arms, opening his beautiful deep ocean blue eyes, looking expectantly in his own green ones as if they held all the answers in the Universe. And Dean would lean down over him, doing something he had wished for years, letting himself grasp tight at the happiness he had fought and bleed and died for, never intending on letting go.

It would be so easy, if only Cas woke up.

Dean couldn’t register any of Sam’s incessant and pestering questions, not when his soul was throbbing painfully and when the sound of his brother’s voice was growing more and more tiresome with each heartbeat that passed without any sign from his Angel. He could feel his breath start coming in, slow yet steady, and he could feel his beating heart faintly through the layers of his clothing. He seemed alright, just sleeping, without a single drop of blood on his pristine trench coat and without a single hair out of place, if his untidy way of keeping his hairstyle was to be considered. The black wisps did look windswept and ruffled, but that was his daily look, wasn’t it? Part of his charisma that left Dean breathless every time they ran into each other inside the tiny bunker.

Dean moved one of the strands that had fallen into his eyes, brushing softly against the warm skin under the pretence of checking his temperature, looking for a sign, for anything.

But, still, he didn’t wake up.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” he whispered to no one in particular, his voice small and terrified as realisation dawned upon him.

For all he and the Shadow had talked about, they didn’t mention anything about Cas’ wellbeing once he was mortal and human. They hadn’t said anything about him coming back in one piece, fine, alright. Just graceless, that was the only point that mattered.

And Dean hadn’t even questioned their decision, jumping head-first blindly into their deal, not stopping one second to think about how coming back to Earth as a human would have affected Castiel. He had been stupid, so stupid, so trusting, eager to have the love of his life back with him, that he didn’t care about the consequences.

Dean Winchester, the human representation of a walking anxiety induced panic attack, had not dwelled into the decision to have his Angel back, rushing for a solution. Only to be the problem himself.

His head was spinning and spiralling, crushing him down as he gently kept on cradling Castiel in his arms, his heart sinking with each minute that passed without a response from the angel. Former angel, he reminded himself, choking on his unshed tears, his breathing becoming more and more erratic as he tried to keep them at bay.

Optimism, he’d need optimism. Something that he had never once had in his life, his vision always grim and dark, tainted by the harsh reality he lived in. But then, Cas had appeared out of nowhere, taking in stride all of his stabbings and putting up with his bullshit, giving him the opportunity to see the world through different lenses. Removing his red glasses that only showed anger and sorrow, and replacing them with kinder ones, pink stained, still aware of all of the ugly their Universe could use against them, but softening each blow with his presence. And he had tried to fight it, used only to violence and agony, but Cas had been so patient with him, building a broken man out of his shards and restoring him to his prime, making him better with his touch.

Cas had told him, before the Empty had taken him, that knowing Dean had changed him. But he couldn’t have been more wrong: Dean was a completely new man thanks to his Angel. He used to be harsh and blunt, ever the precise weapon and perfect soldier that his father had forged him to be, ashamed of what he felt, of who he was. And it was true, back when he was younger, that everything he had ever done was out of anger and survival in a cruel world that only drained him to his bones. But Castiel had helped him see the light in the darkness, replacing all of the misery and distrust that he had in his soul with quiet hopefulness. He had let him grow in peace and prosperity, without fear of judgment and mockery at his passions and at his being.

With Cas, he could simply be himself, unfiltered and natural, to whatever degree of weird and nerdy he wanted to be. Cas’ presence was the best thing that had ever happened to Dean, and he could finally allow himself to ease into his own skin and mind, for once calm and serene, able to ignore the uproar of his past.

And the more comfortable he became, the harder it was to ignore his feelings for the angel. He always had to remind himself of his inadequacies and of his many failures, conscious that he was nothing, but a speck of dust compared to Castiel, the Angel of the Lord, the angel of Thursday. It had been an honour, falling in love with him, being allowed to see his gaze and to reciprocate in his silence.

He was content, just being around him, but he always fucked it up somehow.

Dean had realised, a few years before, in Purgatory, that he’d burn himself at the stake for Cas, to keep him warm and safe. And yet, he was always the reason for his downfall, his hurting, his pain.

Perhaps Cas had been wrong, in his final moments, telling him that he wasn’t ruinous and destructive.

He blinked furiously back his tears when one slipped out of his eye and fell right in the middle of Castiel’s trench coat. He’d wipe at his face, if only he wasn’t holding his entire cosmos in his hands. His throat burned, aching to scream and wail, but still, he held himself back.

Optimism, he needed to be optimistic. He needed to see the brighter side of the world, a side where Cas would open his eyes and look at him and ignore all the pain and trauma and hurt. He needed to believe that that moment was close, ready to happen.

Dean looked up at Jack, removing his eyes from Castiel’s unresponsive body for the first time since he brought him back. His kid was kneeling next to him and he probably would have noticed him, if he wasn’t so lost in his pitiful mind. He silently watched as he moved his hand, slowly, as if he was terrified of the possible outcomes. For someone who had all the powers in the entire Universe, Jack was still too young and inexperienced to have all that weight resting on his shoulders.

And to add their failure of bringing Cas back, that could ruin him, as much as it ruined Dean.

But perhaps Luck was by their side, for his Angel began to stir in his arms and to slowly open his deep blue eyes, unfazed by his audience. His gaze zeroed on Dean’ face, a soft smile appearing on his lips.

“Hello, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me accidentally confirming that Dean is Rapunzel basically :)))


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. I promise this is complete now!  
>  **TW: anxiety**  
>  If these last two chapters (7 and 8) come, like, out of the blue, that’s because this is a mentally ill brain with depression and anxiety and self-worth issues the size of Ba Sing Se. So, of course, this brain would only see the bad and not the happy. ANd I am taking entirely from my own history with mental illness, so don't come at me saying this doesn't apply to you. It has been incredibly hard for me to write these two chapters for obvious reasons, plus the entire holiday craziness around Christmas and new year.  
> Enjoy and I apologise in advance.

His heart had never beaten faster. At least, not in a situation where his life wasn’t on the line, when he wasn’t being chased down by monsters and ghosts and demons. Even then, years of practice had made him immune to the natural fear that came with the job, his only response being fighting rather than flying.

But, in the end, he was still a human being, with a human heart. And adrenaline still kicked in, along with everything else.

During the years, he had managed to recognise the different reactions his body had for each situation, sometimes ignoring them in favour of following his head and lead, or the orders that he had been given. He knew that his gut clenched whenever he seemed lost, void of solutions on how to get out of a hunt or a trap or a tiny motel room without making the old door creak and alerting the other people inside, and he knew that his heart raced, whenever he figured out that, in order to save himself, he’d have to do something stupid and dangerous and that could probably kill him, if the monsters didn’t beat him to that.

But, he also knew that his heart pumped fast in his chest, stealing all of his oxygen, whenever he had his Angel around. The greedy muscle would make his brain shortcut, overworking itself, begging for scraps of attention from Castiel. Those fleeting moments were the only reason it beat at all sometimes.

That was a recurrent theme, in his and Cas’ relationship: the first time it had happened, was when they met in that barn, after everything that went down in Hell, sparks literally flying in the air as he unleashed part of his power; he had stabbed the angel before he was even able to ask a single question, thanking the countless years of training for his sharp reflexes. And, for the first time in a long while, his body had reacted differently than usual.

There had been something about the unfazed look on Castiel’s face as he calmly took the knife out of his chest, not a single drop of blood dirtying the blade, that sent Dean’s heart flying high on the sky, higher than a kite.

And it had happened so often during the years that Dean had categorised it as a natural reaction his body had to his best friend’s presence. Every time the angel would smile, or just generally breathe in his direction with those blue eyes of his and his usual aura of goodness and kindness and perfectness, his brain would fully stop working, like a computer in overheat and overdrive. He was sure that steam would come out of his ears, if only they were in a cartoon of sorts.

Dean had been so certain that his feelings were obvious, especially in those instances where he quite literally couldn’t even walk straight, always bumping into walls and doors and furniture, going around with his love written all over his face with a bold red sharpie, yet the angel had never commented on any of it, simply stared back, not daring to break eye contact unless they were being interrupted.

And, oh boy, were they interrupted! It almost felt like Sam had a radar of sorts, always walking in on them sharing a private moment filled with tension and unspoken words.

Perhaps, if either had said something, things would have ended up very differently, he silently lamented as he watched his Angel widen his eyes and look around himself, disoriented.

Who could have blamed him? He had been dead until a minute before!

He gingerly touched over the trench coat, fully asserting that he was indeed alright, in one piece, unsure of what to do with the newly human, formerly angel being spread out on his lap.

Part of him wanted to collapse on top of Castiel, burying his head in the lapels of his jacket and remaining there until the sun stopped shining, letting all his emotions out, all of the fear and happiness and rage and hurt and despair and love and pain, hiding there as the weight of his entire life finally crashed down onto him. He was thankful for his seated position; he would have definitely fallen otherwise, as relief permeated every corner of his being. He wanted to yell out in happiness, for his love was back and they were finally free and suddenly the world didn’t seem such a terrible and dark and twisted place.

But another side of him, the one that had given up on hope, that thought that nothing good ever happened, not to him at least, the part that knew that he didn’t deserve to be saved all those years back and that he definitely didn’t deserve his bliss now, it was screaming in his head. The nasty voice that had always been there, and that sounded too much like his father’s for his own liking, was roaring to life, echoing that this wasn’t real. That he had imagined it all once again, just as he had done after Castiel had left him in Purgatory.

He knew, logically, that the sight in front of him was real, that he was there, in his arms, alive and human and as well as one in his position might have been. He was breathing, and his heart was beating, and his eyes were open. And the people that surrounded them were real: Rowena, in her red dress, always so put together and curated to the last detail, as she looked down at them with concern and hope; Eileen, watching them carefully as she held onto Sam’s old and ragged flannel, almost as if she needed to ground herself, the magnitude of everything that had just happened too much; Sam, whose hair definitely needed to be trimmed down, worrying over him like the giant moose he truly was, his eyes widened as he checked both him and Castiel for injuries; Jack, wearing hand me downs mixed with his own clothes, in the most Winchester way possible, as he crouched down to help as best as he could with his human strength, completely foregoing the supernatural abilities in order to feel all of the emotions he’d have to forget to be a celestial being.

He knew all of that was real, tangible, something that he finally had, after years hoping and failing. A family, at last.

Yet, his traitorous mind tainted his vision, making doubt and shame creep over his face. That nasty voice just wouldn’t stop talking, pouring venom in his brain and torturing him from the inside.

He was, once again, frozen on the floor, just as he had been the week prior. It was ironic, how his reaction was mirroring the one he had had when Castiel had been taken, despite the complete turn of events.

Before, he had been stuck in his grief, too overwhelming to even fathom going on, moving, as he always tried to do. And now, he was petrified in his fears, all of them populating his head, yet somehow concrete, nevertheless.

Dean didn’t even realise that his surroundings were moving, too consumed with his ruined brain that had automatically made the walls close in on him, just waiting for his latent claustrophobia to kick in.

He didn’t feel the weight of Castiel getting off of him, as delicately as he could with his newly human limbs, suddenly so fragile and weak; he didn’t feel his brother’s hands clumping on his shoulders and raising him up to his feet, just like he had done many times during the years when Sammy couldn’t even walk properly yet, falling and tripping over his own feet, just to then raise his head up to proudly giggle as he crawled back into Dean’s arm; he didn’t feel the voices around him happily yelling, celebrating to their heart’s contents for the first time, maybe in forever.

His vision was blurry, his throat burned, and his lungs were about to explode. His head was on fire, each thought drowning one under the other, in an endless cycle of internal agony.

He stood up, briskly swatting away Sam’s hands. Just because he was getting older, by some miracle, it didn’t mean he needed help with something so mundane, he thought, brushing over his pants to make sure no debris or dried blood had stuck to the fabric. Especially the blood, it was always such a bitch to take off, even with expertise and a very well stocked laundry room!

Dean knew that needed to keep moving, at least partially, for it would be the only way his mind wouldn’t suffocate him. It was a trait he had picked up growing under John Winchester’s strict regime, where every display of emotion was nothing but a weakness, a weed that needed to be eradicated.

He could spend days cleaning guns, mending clothes, polishing knives, quiet in a corner of their motel room, hiding away from Sammy because he knew that, the moment his brother spotted him, he would have to talk and take care of him. But he was drained, void of words and voice, too tired of everything and nothing at all, even when he was young and supposedly full of life and energy. And so, he kept himself busy, distracted, moving.

It was a habit that had gotten him through tough times, helping him stay grounded and away from his head, when the world seemed to fall down and shatter at his feet.

It was just what he needed, because, Dean reasoned, the moment he would let his guard down and his emotions out of his tight leash, he might actually explode. And, although he loved dearly every single person in that room, he wasn’t going to break down in front of any of them. Maybe with one exception, if he hadn’t already changed his mind.

He was just so concentrated in the way his hands were working, fixing the buttons of his flannel that were perfect, yet always seemed crooked, and checking the bandaging on his hand, making sure that his wound had closed and stopped bleeding, while he tried to sort through his head for a ladder to get out of the mental hole he had been digging with his overthinking, that he didn’t even realise that all around him there was quiet now.

Castiel had gone around the room, hugging and being hugged by their family, and now, the joy had left its place to confusion, for fear, for doubt. And, while Jack might have been able to supply all of the missing answers that Dean hadn’t given just yet, too lost in his own head, he knew that it would be best if he was the one speaking.

After all, he was the one who went toe to toe with the Shadow, miraculously walking out of there alive and untouched, with his Angel back in one piece.

He needed to explain, especially the little, tiny, microscopic detail regarding Castiel’s permanence on Earth.

Now, that was going to be a lot to unpack and, to add insult to injury, he’d have to do it without stumbling over his own emotions, keeping his scattered heart in check. “ _Get it together, Winchester_ ,” his mind said, a cold rush going down his back at the prospect of everything that might go wrong with his words.

But, before he could spiral down once again into the never-ending black hole that was his mind, Jack pulled him out: “Dean? Dean!” he called, bringing his attention back to reality, as all of the eyes in the room landed on him expectantly.

He suddenly felt naked, exposed, vulnerable.

“You okay?” Sam asked, placing a hand over his unscarred shoulder and levelling him with his gaze that he recognised all too well. He had used the same method time and time again, checking in on his little brother, reassuring and comforting.

“Terrific,” he simply replied, managing to keep the sarcasm out of his tone for once in his life. He wasn’t feeling bad or anything per se, but his internal turmoil was slowly making its way out and he didn’t think that it would be a good idea to let go, not just yet. So, he swallowed down his screams and just smiled, strained and crooked, begging that no one would notice his discomfort at being in the spotlight.

And, of course, nobody did, none the wiser: years of learning how to mask his emotions and actions to other’s comfort paid off flawlessly.

Sammy just looked at him with pride and awe swelling his eyes, as if he was still the easily impressionable three years old that fell for every one of Dean’s jokes and tricks that made him eat his dinner without a fuzz. “You did it!” he happily exclaimed, clumping his hand tightly over his shoulder in lieu of a hug.

“Why are you so surprised?” Dean asked, shaking himself out of his brother’s hold while counting to twelve in his head, trying to keep his discomfort at the attention to a minimum. For his bravado and cocky attitude, he wasn’t that particularly fond of the limelight, and he didn’t deserve that now, with Castiel finally back. Yet, he was the first one who wasn’t staring at the former angel, choosing to focus on a spot behind him to avoid looking directly at the blazing sun that was his Angel, because he wasn’t his and he didn’t deserve to be blessed with such a sight.

He could not take credit for the spell, that had been all Rowena’s great and brilliant mind that had brought him back. He could not take the credit for the discovery, for it was Jack who had found a way to rescue his father. He could only take the credit for his demise, since he had perished to save Dean, leaving behind a burning ache that ran deep in his bones.

It had all been Dean’s fault, so it was only natural that he had been the one risking his life to bring him back to them, to the living.

But his heroic and egoistic actions didn’t grant him immunity to the shitshow that, Dean was sure, was about to go down the moment he opened his mouth.

And, indeed, there it was: “Why don’t I remember what happened in the Empty, unlike the last time?” Castiel asked, turning around expectantly towards him, his hands crossed over his sternum.

Still, Dean couldn’t look at him, couldn’t witness the way emotions must have been passing over his face. He didn’t want to see hopefulness get replaced by hurt, by anger, by sadness at the knowledge of Dean’s bargain. He couldn’t. So, he kept on staring blindly at nothing and everything at all, searching for the right words to convey his message as best as he could.

“You were asleep this time. Properly dead, not like before when you woke up when you were called from here,” he started, vaguely, unsure of what he could admit. How was he supposed to tell the former angel that it was partially Dean’s fault he didn’t have a peaceful afterlife, not with his incessant prayers and laments that had somehow gone straight into the Empty, causing one of their major problems. He had been the one to wake the Shadow up, fucking everything in the way, as per usual.

“The Shadow said that, since you died post Jack going off in there, that meant you got to, you know… sleep? Well, that. The only ones that remain there now are Michael and Lucifer, since they have yet to burst in here angrily tearing down our walls.”

“What do you mean with ‘ _only Michael and Lucifer’_?” Sam asked, the panic rising in his voice barely audible and discernible from his usual tone, to a non-trained ear. But Dean knew by heart every single change in pitch that his brother did, no matter how minimal or quiet it was, and he rushed with his reply, reassuring and calming: “I mean that the Shadow did say that, after the explosion, all of their previous occupants were now awake and so they just… removed them!”  
He didn’t know why that was being the topic Sam was choosing to focus on. They had more pressing things to discuss, like getting Castiel his grace back, begging for forgiveness from the former angel, learning how to cope with the immediate rejection he was going to be faced with and with the subsequent heartbreak of losing the love of his life and his best friend because of his idiocy.

“Look, they just wanted to have their quiet place back. Can’t really blame them, considering I’ve had to keep up with your snoring my entire life. So, they just chucked all of the angels and demons that were bothering them out of the Empty, back in this dimension.”

It wasn’t that hard to understand, Dean thought. Besides, if his monkey brain had managed to wrap around the concept, surely all the others would catch up quickly. It was actually a good thing: all the angels and demons that had died in the crossfire during the apocalypse; Crowley, Ruby, Meg, Balthasar, Gabriel; all of them would get a chance back at life, without the two arch-dicks and without Chuck deciding for them. Sure, there were also major dicks getting out like Zachariah and the Knights of Hell, but those could be dealt with, now that their puppeteers were to sleep for the rest of Time. And, with Rowena in charge of Hell as its Queen and with Jack and Amara getting Heaven back on track, as it always should’ve been, life could finally be good. They could all be finally free, unchained.

How was that a concept hard to grasp, Dean wondered as he watched the puzzled expression fall over his brother’s eyes. He could almost see the gears turn inside his head as he rubbed his nose between pointer and thumb, as if to relieve tension building in his temples.

“Are you trying to tell us that every single angel and demon ever killed is back on Earth?” he eventually asked, almost looking pained to do so.

“ _Fucking finally!”_ Dean thought, taking a breath of relief at being able to convey his message. “Hell yeah!” he replied, putting his hands in his back pockets as another weight got lifted from his shoulders, “But I don’t think they’re on Earth, not right now at least. Probably up and downstairs, you know, in their places. I didn’t really ask!”

“Why didn’t you ask?” Sam exploded, looking down at him as if he had grown a second and third head on his shoulders. As if he needed the extra weight. “This is major news, Dean!”

“I was busy!”  
“With what?”  
“I was literally bargaining for Castiel, in case you forgot about that!” he exclaimed, pointing accusatorily back and forth between the former angel and his own brother, who only had then the decency to flush red at his words. “The Shadow said that in order to get him back, they’d keep his Grace, and no matter what I did, they weren’t negotiating on that. And I thought that we’d be able to restore it somehow, once he was back, right Rowena?”

That had been his only pressing thought since they got back. Because now, Castiel most definitely hated him and saw him for who he truly was, the veil that seemed to have been blinding him lifted at last. In his last moments, the former angel had made him feel seen, understood, known, but he had been mistaken: Dean was nothing more than a pathetic man who could only follow orders, nothing compared to the blinding light that was his Angel, even if he couldn’t lay a claim or call him _his_ anymore.

Once again, Dean was willing to accept the small scraps of affection Cas could give him, if he could bring himself to forgive Dean’s thousands of mistakes and errors, all of them culminating in the loss of his grace, something he had desperately fought to gain back.

But, when had things gone his way?

Rowena stepped forward, as best as her limitations with the devil’s trap painted on the floor allowed her, and opened her mouth to speak, certainly to assure Dean on yet another foolish quest, looking at him with wary and gentle eyes, but Sam interrupted her before she had gotten even a word out: “So what, you just gave his grace away? That wasn’t yours to deal with!”

“It’s not like I had a choice! They were gonna take it anyway, at least we got Castiel over here back in one piece!” he defended himself, even when, deep down, he knew that his actions had been inexcusable. Despite managing to complete his mission, he had still lost something important along the way, something that wasn’t his to raffle with.

He was already mentally preparing himself for Castiel’s completely justified anger, for his immediate departure from his life. But, he knew, the thought of the former angel being fine and alive was more than Dean had ought to have. And, if the price for Castiel’s happiness was being out of Dean’s life, then so be it. This way, he couldn’t irremediably fuck another person up.

“Sam, it’s alright,” Castiel interrupted his train of thought, bringing him out of his mind, despite the fact that Dean had yet to look at him, too scared of what he’d see written on his face. He walked up unsteadily to the pair of brothers, as if he was unsure of his footing.

He probably was, Dean realised as his heart constricted at the sight, avoiding his deep blue eyes: it had been entirely his fault that Castiel was now out of his usual element, lacking his natural strengths, disoriented and so utterly human. “It’s best this way,” he continued, his voice soft and gentle, undoubtedly holding his anger at bay, “I will live life as a human, which has always seemed fascinating to me! And I will never go back into the Empty, once my time comes.”

He was way too unruffled about the entire ordeal, Dean thought, terrified of what it meant: the calm before the storm, the eye of the hurricane.

“But, you don’t have a soul! We have no way of knowing where you’ll go then!”

“That’s not true!” Jack exclaimed, stepping forward and standing next to his father as he looked at Sam with disbelief, “He’ll come to Heaven, of course!”

That had, indeed, been the last of Dean’s worries. As if Jack, the new god, the new ruler of everything, would have let him go anywhere else once, _if_ , he died! Really, for someone who had aced his SATs and was known as the smart one out of the two of them, Sammy was being particularly dense, on purpose.

“Right, right. Sorry, just… processing,” he said, running a hand over his hair as he looked back up at Castiel. “So, you’re okay with this, Cas?”

There was the million-dollar question. And Dean knew the real answer, even when the former angel tried to cover it up with pleasantries. He knew what was coming, what he merited. And he deserved nothing nice.

He had fucked up with Castiel’s life for the last time, perhaps their dungeon would be the last thing he would see before getting dragged downwards. Either way, he deserved the punishment, whatever it might be.

It would be poetic, dying in the same place Castiel had left him, in the same place all of his hopes had shattered, alongside his ruined heart.

And indeed, the former angel appeared calm and collected when he spoke: “Yes, Sam. I am. I have completed all of my missions and I think humanity would be good for me,” he claimed, his gaze settling on Dean’s figure. He could feel his eyes on him as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to calm his nerves down before they wore him out to his breaking point, but he could not understand what he was looking at or for. Sure, he was nothing more than a hot piece of ass and he was used to people looking at him just because of that, but, with Castiel, it had always been different.

He had always felt seen and understood, and now he was going to burn for it.

It was Sam, once again, who managed to pull him out of his thoughts, even when the wariness and shakiness in his bones remained. “Okay, perfect! Then, we got to deal with, you know, the demons and angels that are back,” he said, clapping his hands and looking around the room, probably scanning through his mind for some sort of aid in their next step.

Dean didn’t dare utter a single word. He had already done too much damage for one day, for one life.

And Sam had been right: he hadn’t thought about the consequences of his actions, never did, and now, they were going to bite them in the ass. He could almost count down the minutes before the bunker’s wards would get broken, the place swarming with angry celestial beings, ready to get their heads on spikes, and with infernal creatures, eager to torture them until the End.

Dean supposed it might be merciful of them, to drag him away from Castiel’s imminent wrath.

“Are you alright, dear?” Rowena asked no one in particular, ignoring Sam’s protest at the sudden change of topic and looking directly at both him and Castiel, as if she had posed the question to the pair of them, although Dean couldn’t figure out why she would be asking such things to him.

He was _fine_ , terrific, ready to get murdered at the hands of the love of his life for his continuous errors and sins.

In the end, it was the former angel who replied to her question, being the one who was actually out of sorts: “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, way too quickly for it to be an actual description of his well-being, but satisfying to the others nevertheless, “I feel… different. I… I’ll be fine, thank you. As Sam said, we do have more pressing matters,” he continued to elaborate, smiling strained at Rowena, who simply patted his arm away.  
“Nonsense! You stay here and get back on track, while we take care of things. What could a few demons do against me? I’m their Queen, whether they like it or not,” she proudly declared, raising her neck slightly to make the light catch in her crown, creating a rainbow effect that shined off the walls. “Samuel, would you mind accompany me to Hell so that I can put everyone back in line?”

His brother’s eyes moved carefully from him and Castiel, back and forth in a scene that would have been comedic, if it wasn’t for the heavy air that had settled around them. Not with the way the former’s angel’s gaze had yet to drop from Dean and not with the way that he was trying to shrink away into the shadows, to be unseen. He had yet to cross looks with Castiel, but he already knew what he would see in his eyes: a burning rage, sadness, disappointment. Something that Dean always saw whenever people looked at him, once they reached past the first appearance of cockiness and bravado. Once they began to know him for more than a quick hook-up or a solved hunt.

Not that he could blame any of them: he was sure that, if the roles were reversed, he’d be throwing daggers too, and did throw his fair share, when it was his turn.

“Sure,” Sam eventually replied, still looking unconvinced. He signed a quick ‘ _See you later’_ to Eileen, who simply nodded her head back, before moving to stand next to Rowena, lending her his arm. They both disappeared out of sight without a sound, leaving a faint trace of sulphur in the air in their wake.

“I’ll go to Heaven as well,” Jack declared, crunching down to grab Miracle’s collar and to ruffle his fur with his hands, “and he’ll come too, so he can stay with my mom while I see if I can fix this with Naomi.”

Dean was already moving to grab his jacket from a nearby chair, where he had left it before starting the rite to get into the Empty, but Eileen stopped him, placing a hand over his own and squeezing once, tight. “I’ll go with you too,” she said, looking Dean in the eye with overwhelming understanding and affection.

He couldn’t help himself from signing a _‘Thank you_ ’ back to her, before holding her hand once more, squeezing back.

He hoped this wasn’t the last they’d see of each other.

Jack simply nodded once, after having hugged Castiel one last time, and with that, they disappeared, leaving them alone in the bunker, in room 7b, where it all had gone to hell and back.

And, Dean thought bitterly, it could only get worse.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter!  
>  **TW: panic attack and mentions of self-harm.**  
>  I'm sorry if this is such a chunky boy but the words just flew!  
> here we have the parallels between DeanCas and Patroclus and Achilles, cause I couldn't help myself!

The moment the room emptied out, Dean could’ve sworn that the temperature had just dropped down a thousand degrees. If it wasn’t for his knowledge on lore and folklore, as well as the painstaking scouting of every single corner of the bunker he and his brother had done all those years prior, he might’ve missed the feeling in his bones for a ghost.

But he knew, clear as day, that the sudden coldness that permeated his entire being didn’t come from anything supernatural, but rather from something so utterly human, it terrified him.

And so, there they stood, in complete and utter silence. Dean couldn’t bear himself from looking at Castiel’s eyes, terrified of what he would see in those deep blue irises he was enchanted with. The silence was so loud, he could hear the clock that was ticking in the kitchen, just above the stove and next to the timer that was worn out by use and time.

Dean counted each passing beat, not knowing when the axe would drop on his neck, guillotining him in the same spot his heart had already died, just a few days before. 10, 20, 30 seconds passed and with them, Dean’s heart sank, lower and lower and lower than he thought possible.

They were both frozen in time and space, in a stalemate, unable to go back to what once was and to move forward into what could be.

On one hand, there was Castiel, still graceful and stoic despite his new human form, managing to appear angelic nevertheless, regardless of his situation. He was still looking at Dean with intensity, his arms limp over his sides, with his tie askew and his trench coat unbuttoned, revealing the suit beneath.

On the other hand, Dean was trying his best to avoid his gaze, feeling more and more like a miscreant child that was just trying to skip punishment from their parents for something he had done wrong, despite knowing very well that their action wouldn’t have sent them far down the path. He knew what was bound to come next, had known since he was young and stupid, believing in fairy tales and angels and kindness. And all he could do now was burying his eyes on the floor, letting them move from tile to tile to assess the damage he had done with his blood.

There were diluted spots of dried dirty blood all over, in a pattern that had once been clear and visible, before feet had walked all over it, smudging and ruining it. He had worried with details and precision, not even a full hour prior, but now he couldn’t care less.

However, Dean knew that he should definitely begin to clean the mess he had created, before the tiles stained and the blood-soaked the crevices in between them. If only a single muscle of his entire body could move, he would’ve.

Instead, he was pinned down by the former angel’s gaze, his hands shoved in his pockets to avoid Castiel from seeing them shake and tremble with tension and dread. He focused on the floor as if his life depended on it, searching through his brain for something to say, something to do. All that came up were apologies and begging and cries, in imprecise order, but nothing seemed to work.

“Well, if he was gonna zap me by now he would’ve,” he thought bitterly, chuckling lightly at nothing in particular, his hands still fretting with the insides of his jeans’ pockets. Although Castiel was now powerless and human, Dean didn’t doubt for a second that he would have murdered him on the spot effortlessly, if he truly wanted to.

There were so many weapons scattered around the room, after all: the knife he had used to cut his hand for the rite, still speckled with his dried blood and left on a shelf as a memento of what had just happened; the chains that hung from the roof and walls, long enough to wrap around his neck in case it was necessary; the swords that were carelessly placed inside an umbrella holder next to the door, ready to be unsheathed and pierced through his hardened, painful, black heart.

Still, neither moved.

Dean knew that he was being a coward, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. If he remained still, unmoving, the moment would draw out longer than it should’ve, just like everything else when it came to his and the angel’s relationship. Longing gazes that went on for ages, casual touches that lingered on the excessive side, a hand on his own forehead when the angel was healing him and another on the angel’s cheek when he was looking into his eyes, assessing that everything was normal and alright, even for a brief moment. Those were fixed points in the equation, as Sam loved to tease him on from time to time.

And Dean was a hunter, fearless and powerful, a perfectly oiled murder machine that had managed to kill the unkillable, on countless occasions. Yet, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak the words that were burning the back of his throat, that wanted to be yelled and screamed and free. He couldn’t even bring himself to hold the former angel’s gaze, terrified and dumb and an idiot.

He knew, rationally and logically, that silence didn’t always mean bad things, that Castiel’s brain was probably still rebooting and wrapping around his new reality, that he had said those words and sacrificed himself all those days back for a reason. All of that he knew.

Nevertheless, he stood his ground silently, swallowing his tongue and digging his fingers through the denim, already feeling the crescent shape of his fingernails on his skin, separated only by the thin inside layer of his pockets. He knew that, if he pressed down hard enough, he’d be able to break the skin, through the flimsy fabric, and that the simple action could bring him back to reality, could be the push he needed to speak up, to react.

Instead, he did the best next thing, conscious that the path that laid in front of him wasn’t the one he truly desired, no matter what his mind told him. He violently took his hands out of the pockets, cracking the knuckles as he turned around without a word, beginning to gather all the unused ingredients into their respective jars and containers, ready to be stored once again.

And, just like that, he started to clean the mess he had made in an attempt to fix his broken heart, even if, in the end, he had apparently shattered it in a thousand little pieces in the process. At least, as he took the bowl that he had used for the rite and lifted it off the stool that had momentarily replaced the chair in the middle of the devil’s trap, the voice inside his head had quieted a little, replaced by the familiar buzz of nerves that lived perpetually under his skin.

He knew that, in order for his brain to quiet, he would need to get moving, to do something tangible. That had been the reason why Baby was always perfectly oiled and never needed a check-up or a single repair that wasn’t caused by a hunt or a monster: during the years, Dean had discovered that making his hands work, no matter how dirty and callused they’d get, would shut up most of the nasty voices that lived inside of his head. It wasn’t always effective, just like everything else in the hunting life, but it was a starter, nevertheless.

He could hear his blood boil inside his veins and his entire body was alight with shame, undoubtedly already showing the typical redness around his neck and ears that appeared whenever he bottled down too many emotions, all at once. But, somehow, Castiel was kind enough not to point it out.

He generally never did mention anything, whenever Dean was flustered or whenever his brain short-cut at the knowledge that such a powerful and ancient cosmic entity chose to spend time with him, of all people. And the occasions had been countless throughout the years.

At least, Dean thought as he tried to wipe the excess petals and herbs that had fallen on the stool back in the bowl to discard them later, if he was to die anyway, he could go with a sliver of dignity left intact. Even if it was under false pretences. Especially then.

He kept on holding his breath in suspense, letting his lungs burn in a deliciously painful way that managed to calm him down more and more by the second, not knowing when the former angel would finally get tired of his pitiful act and finish him. That, he reasoned as he kept on cleaning with his back still turned around and his face hidden from sight, would be mercy, more than he deserved from anybody, let alone Castiel, who he had fucked over and over repeatedly and who deserved to take his revenge.

From behind him, he heard a low sigh of resignation, probably from a certain former angel who had decided to zap him out of creation for good, yet nothing came. Instead, waiting for the gunshot or the stabbing in his back, he listened to the ruffling of fabric and the distinct sound of a familiar trench coat getting folded, an action that he had done many times when he was alone and deep in prayer, just barely holding tears back in.

He could feel, without turning around, Castiel slowly taking off his coat and suit jacket, loosening his tie, undoubtedly uncomfortable in his newly human body, and rolling his sleeves. It took all of his power to stay rooted on the spot, to not turn around, to not look.

After all, he didn’t deserve to witness such a sight of perfection, not after everything he had done and caused.

“I’m going to grab a bucket and a mop,” Castiel said from behind him, his tone even and collected, if not resigned. Those had been the first words that had been directly spoken at him, without anyone else hearing, besides his initial ‘ _Hello, Dean_ ’, before he had had the time to rack through his brain to gather all the information he needed to despise Dean.

Not that he could blame him, he despised himself, after all.

What followed was a pregnant pause, a heavy silence that could rupture Dean’s eardrums, if they just kept it going any longer. Again, the stalemate they were in, thick and painful and hurting both of them at the same time. Again, Dean couldn’t speak or retort anything other than a quick nod of his head, probably barely visible from his hutched position but that still managed to convey his message. He was afraid that, the moment he would open his mouth, all of his unsaid words would leave him, revealing truths that should stay buried, because he might change Castiel’s mind if he said something. He could defend himself with his words, but that wasn’t what he wanted.

All he wanted was for Castiel to be happy, to be free. And, if to do so, he would need to be away from Dean, to cut himself from the hunter’s damaged and damaging life, then so be it. He had already ruined the former angel, after all, corrupted him, as many of his siblings had already told him, and broken him, as he had seen and done first-hand, with or without the mind control of the Mark of Cain, and made him fall.

That had probably been one of the worst consequences of knowing him, and it had happened twice now.

He didn’t want to do anymore harm, not to the love of his life, who had undoubtedly already changed his mind about him, taking a U-turn from his initial loving stance, after his recent mess.

Dean felt more than heard another sigh coming from his back, resigned and pointed and so very tired, before a shuffle of dress shoes over the tiles of the floor indicated that he was alone, again, as he should be. As he should remain.

He had spent all of his life knowing that everyone would eventually leave him, getting sick of him and his bullshit, theory proven right by Sammy first and then by his father. Somehow, Castiel had stuck around the longest and Dean knew that it had been bliss, true and pure and unadulterated, the raw feeling of joy that he felt through his bones whenever the angel would remain with him, even if it was only because of work and supernatural related crap.

But, if life had taught him anything, it was that fairy-tales weren’t real and, even when they somehow became true, they didn’t apply to people like him. They didn’t apply to him.

And so, he had never dared to do anything more than wish, than hope, than pray. He knew that it was idiotic and destructive, but, imagining a Universe in which Castiel could, would, reciprocate his feelings, it was the least harming of his habits. The only one who got hurt in his musing and spiralling was his heart, after all.

But the angel had to come out and say those things, all those beautiful and cruel and tragic things, just right before he got taken away, leaving him alone in the aftermath. Dean knew that the only person in the entirety of Creation that understood him was Castiel and so he hadn’t doubted him, not in the immediate time after, not when facing Chuck. How could he not believe that the love of his life had seen right into his ruined soul, witnessed all the good and bad and ugly, choosing to remain by his side?

Dean wanted to believe them, had believed them, for a while. For the time necessary to win, to fight, to stay alive.

Yet, now that everything was right, was back as it should’ve been, his resolve and belief had crumbled. And he could see Castiel’s final words for what they truly had been: a farewell, something that the angel knew he needed in order to survive, to win, to fight, to stay alive in an empty world when all he wanted to do was hide and pass away quietly, trying to do as little noise as possible.

And Castiel’s words had brought him strength, joy, power. He had taken them on, believing in them, making them his anchor and moral compass both. In the end, it had been the angel’s speech that had made him get back on his feet, looking for a way out of the mess that Chuck had made. It had been his message that he had carried in his heart, when they went to face the All-Mighty, miraculously winning. And, it was thanks to his words, kind and gentle and so utterly fake, that he had managed to one-up himself, bargaining with the Empty and getting him back.

Now though, he realised their meaning, truly. After all, how could someone like Castiel, a literal angel, a paragon of perfection and greatness and goodness, stoop so low? How could someone who had seen the beginning of Time see something as horrible and foul as his broken heart and stay, entranced by it, enamoured even?

How could an angel love an animal, cruel and vulgar and vile and primitive compared to his excellence and magnificence?

The faint buzz of nerves under his skin was now replaced by an avalanche. All of the emotions that he had kept on a tight leash in the previous week, hell, during his entire life, were crumbling down on him, drowning him with their roaring voices. Screaming at him for his foolishness, his ignorance.

He leaned against the stool that was in front of him with both hands, holding onto the splintered and old wood for dear life, as his head spun around and as his vision blurred. How could have he been so stupid, to think that he could be worthy of the angel’s affections? What did he, a mindless, simple hunter who was fucked up in the head, could offer a celestial being who had seen everything, done everything? In which universe would he be enough?

Dean closed his eyes, shutting out his rapidly blurring vision as it locked in tight with the angry red lines painted on the floor. His chest began to heave out of control as he slowly fell to his knees, unable to hold his own against the war that was raging inside his brain, still with his hands clasped on the old stool, his only anchor to reality.

He welcomed the way the splinters of wood dug and perforated his skin, around the bandage that was still wrapped over his injured hand. Soon enough the blood would flow again, once his wound had reopened from the constant pressure as he clutched the stool. And with that, if he was lucky, so would the contrasting, screaming voices inside his head, loud and crude and painful. His breath was coming out of pattern and he could feel his entire body shake as he tried to sit on the floor, letting the cold sweep through his clothes.

It had worked, from time to time, when he was unable to do anything else, just staying outside as the wind blew, violent and freezing. It had cleared his head wonderfully, as if he had blown directly his thoughts away while the cold calmed his fast beating heart. He had spent many nights contemplating the sky, watching the constellations move and the stars twinkle, laying over the hood of the Impala or on a park bench, surrounded by darkness, as he tried to regain control over himself, over his body, over his poisonous mind.

Of course, there were faster methods to get him rid of the pestering voices, but when he had to share everything with his brother and father, even when neither paid him mind, it was still hard to do so. One thing was to lock himself in a bathroom to ‘ _redress the wounds from a recent fight’_ or to check on his dressings, able to take his time rinsing the blood off his knife carefully and able to make his head quiet; another thing was to show up with blood sweeping through his bandages and clothes without anyone else stabbing him. And he was just so clumsy during the hunts, long sleeves always covering up his mistakes and his misjudgements of his opponents.

He loved the bathroom stalls that were in the schools he spent time at, he loved their privacy and their quietness as he tried to make his brain work for a test or a presentation, despite being stupid.

But, whenever those methods couldn’t be put in use, Dean had to improvise. And everything was better than the typical stern talk John Winchester would give him whenever he had his eyes wet, before he understood how the world worked. Therefore, the many nights spent just looking up at the dark sky, hoping to, one day, be able to be amongst them, despite his fear of flying. After all, Dante did describe Heaven as amongst the stars.

Dean now knew that that had been a false ideology, having been in the place a couple of times.

He also knew that there was most definitely a cage down below with his name written on the nametag, but that was another point.

The sound of quiet footsteps brought him back closer to reality, but, still, he couldn’t open his eyes. His head felt heavy and so did the eyelids, and he was just so tired. Of everything. His grip on the stool had loosened in his pathetic fall and his hands were now shaking fully, even when they maniacally toyed one with the other’s fingers, pulling and pushing the skin around his nailbeds, digging the splinters of wood deeper into his skin, enjoying the sickly way his skin seemed to warm up at the contact.

It wasn’t until the footsteps halted, a noise so clean and sharp in the otherwise emptiness of the bunker, that he realised his face was on fire, except for two streaks that ran from his eyes to his chin, parallel and perfectly cutting down both of his cheeks.

He could hear his father’s voice, clear and directly into his head, as he reminded him to ‘ _man up’_ and that he wasn’t a girl, therefore he shouldn’t act like one. He could feel the burning imprint on his face, as he remembered how he couldn’t stop crying over how unfair the world was, before he learnt just how truly awful it might be.

The ringing in his head got louder, drowning down everything outside of his pitiful brain, while he tried to shut his already closed eyes even tighter, willing the images to leave him alone, to let him go.

He was locked in so tight inside of his mind, that he didn’t even realise the approaching footsteps were getting closer and closer rapidly, until they faltered and stopped altogether. He couldn’t hear anything outside of the ringing in his ears, couldn’t retain a single sound that wasn’t the faint and livid voice of burning shame inside of his head.

 _“Pull yourself up, Winchester,”_ it said _, “stop acting like a girl._ ”

And he desperately wanted to retort to the voice, letting it know that there was no shame in acting like a girl, considering every single girl he met on the field managed to kick his ass. Acting like a girl meant being as protective as Jody, as confident as Eileen, as stubborn as Charlie, as kind as Donna. He wished he could be an ounce like those women and he wished he could tell the voice inside of his head the same.

Yet, he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough, the man who had fought God and won, succeeding in avoiding every single apocalypse that got put in his path, wasn’t strong enough to tell the voice of his father to go fuck itself, that he was tired of hearing the same hypocritical bullshit that he had to deal with throughout his childhood, that still haunted him in his adulthood.

He had almost gotten closer to doing that when he was 17, when he tried to go to a tattoo parlour for his birthday. His father had intercepted him on the way, just before he entered to take the appointment, and he had gotten angry at him, claiming that he would ruin his life and body, that he was an idiot, that he shouldn’t waste the money that John left for him and Sammy over something stupid and meaningless. And Dean wanted to yell back that it was his body and his life, that he could do what he wanted with both, that his father was being a hypocrite, considering he had some on his skin as well. And Dean wanted to kindly remind him that he hadn’t left a single penny for him and his brother, that he was paying for their motel room with little chores here and there, with pool money that he won against men twice his size that weren’t always happy a kid cleaned them dry, with his own sweat as mowed lawns and changed tires, as he tried to make sure Sam was well fed and had a roof over his own head. With everything he could do, legally or not. He wanted to scream that, for once in his life, he was allowed to be selfish, to do what he wanted.

Yet, he kept his mouth shut, like always, like he should. That man in front of him was still his father, his family, and he had to treat him with respect, not because he had earned or deserved it, but because Dean was smarter than he looked and he knew when to pick his battles. Had always known.

After all, it would do him no good to show up at school, or afterwards, with a blackened eye at best. Not that John Winchester would’ve hit him in the face, he knew better than that, but still. He needed his entire body to charm and entrance, and he couldn’t do that if he was disfigured.

A sudden loud crash put his mind out of the bitter memories, bringing him back to a present where John Winchester was long gone, yet his actions still weren’t. His poisonous teachings were still holding him back, his cruel words still twisted in his chest like a knife.

His knees jerked up out of instinct, ready to get out of whatever situation he had just landed himself, but he just drew them against his chest, knowing that, for the time being, he was safe inside the bunker, pretty much alone. He hugged them tightly around his body as he tried to make himself smaller, more out of habit than necessity, when his vision swirled once again over the darkness of his closed eyelids.

A loud crashing never meant good things in his experience, not when he had to deal with monsters on the daily in his life, rude and loud ones that liked to create a mess with their inhuman strength, and definitely not when his father would come back in the middle of the night, smelling like cheap beer and cigarettes, uncaring if he woke him up as he slandered around their tiny, rented motel room. Sam never woke up during those nights and Dean thanked whoever was upstairs for letting him be a heavy sleeper, safe and sound on his bed. He would then keep watch under his own covers, making sure his breathing wasn’t too loud as he waited for his father to go to sleep, those few times when he actually stayed with them instead of leaving them in the middle of nowhere. And only when the old man had taken the sack, he would let himself relax, falling into a nightmare filled sleep that drained him to no end.

And he would wake up the following day, pretending he wasn’t tired, tending to his family, as if nothing had ever happened.

He had learnt, when he was still young and naïve, how to make himself invisible and how to fit in any tiny space he was given, how to disappear out of sight and out of mind. The notion was still inside of his brain, tuned in with years of experiences and with his grown body, not anymore able to get inside cupboards and tiny motel closets.

Still, he tried to become smaller than he was, hiding his face in between his legs as he lamented of his reckless breakdown. There was still someone in the bunker, if the footsteps were any signal and not a hallucination from his wrecked mind. And yet there he was, on the fucking floor surrounded by dried blood that by now had dirtied his jeans.

He reprimanded himself: in his haze, he had fallen in the most illogical and vulnerable spot in the entire room. It would’ve definitely been safer if he had managed to sit and rest against a lateral wall or, even better, if he slotted himself in between the bookshelves, making himself invisible.

His fingers kept on toying with each other over his knees, digging with his blunt nails at the skin of their beds, until their innate warmth was about to escape, ready to wet his fingertips.

But the familiar sensation of hot, boiling blood over his skin didn’t come. There was suddenly warmth surrounding his restless hands alright, only that it was coming from outside his body. Two constricting hands were limiting his reach of action, holding his fingers still and unmoving, while remaining gentle in their touch.

He desperately wanted to open his eyes, to see who this mysterious saviour and torturer was, but his brain wouldn’t let him. Not when images of his past swirled around his eyes, pulling him under and deeper.

Dean braced himself for the inevitable pain that was sure to come any minute now, his cheeks already stinging at the memory. He knew better than to cry, than to break down like the pathetic son of a bitch he was. And he most definitely knew best than to let himself go when there was company around. Years spent with his no-nonsense father and then in Hell had left their imprint on him, teaching him their lessons.

Yet, there was only one person who wouldn’t have belittled him for feeling and who would’ve comforted him. Which was why he had allowed himself to break down in the first place, to let his leash on his emotions go.

Still, it was incredibly fucked up how his brain had taken the 30 years of torture he had suffered at the hands of Alastair as if they were nothing. He had been beaten, stabbed, blown to pieces and, generally speaking, killed in various painful ways, yet nothing the demon did evere came close to the burning sensation of fear and shame his father’s gaze left over him.  
Sammy might have been the demon boy, the reason their mother had died, the one that had left and turned his back on their messed up family, but Dean had always been the real disgrace. Nothing he ever did was right, he was weak and scared and better off dead. John Winchester had told him as much, the night that Sam left for college. _‘It would be better if you had gone_ ,’ his father had said, after barely missing him with an empty flying bottle, _‘I wish it was you who burned._ ’

And how could Dean blame him, when he wished for the same exact thing every day?

He waited, shaking his head as one of the hands holding him was suddenly removed, cold sweeping in over his own hands at the sudden lack of warmth, ready for the blow to come. It had to, after all, and he had to stay still and just take it. It would do him no good reacting, he knew that. Because, if he fought back, he’d have to suffer twice as much as originally intended and he would gladly get it over with.

He had other things to do, after all.

Not that he could remember a single one, though, too far gone inside his mind to know what day it was even.

“Dean?” a shaky voice called him, distant and near at the same time. The voice was low and kind, with just an edge of fear in the tone, and the hand that was holding his was growing tighter and tighter, closing in harshly but gently, a silent reminder that he was alive, somehow. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he could trust whoever was speaking, but his eyes weren’t cooperating still, refusing to work.

Behind his closed eyelids, he could see a dark figure approaching, ready to strike. He wanted to scream for the stranger to run, to save themselves, that he would take the blunt, like he always did. But his throat wasn’t letting the air pass through, wasn’t making a single sound. He tugged and pulled at the stranger’s hand, solid and warm and comforting over his own, trying to convey his message as best as he could in his broken state, but they were unwavering, unmoving.

And so, Dean braced himself for the inevitable pain, again. The suspense was killing him more than any shot ever could, but he knew that the sooner the blow came, the sooner he could get up and continue ignoring the pain in his head.

But, nothing came. At least, nothing harsh.

A hand did lay on his cheek, but it wasn’t followed by the usual stinging of pain. The taste of blood didn’t overpower his mouth and his entire face didn’t lit up on fire, strangely. Instead, the touch was tender and heart-breaking, the hand was caressing him and wiping away at the tears that were still springing from his closed eyes.

Inside of his mind, the screams were echoing louder and louder: _“Pathetic”_ and _“Disgrace”_ and _“Wretched”,_ the words echoed, amplifying his turbulent emotions. Dean was about to cave in under their damned weight, already folded inside himself, tiny and scared and foolish. But, somehow, he managed to ignore them all, focusing on the reassuring and kind hand holding his face, keeping him together. He clasped at it tightly, raising his own hands, that were still wrapped by the stranger’s, to his cheek and tilting his head to the side, looking for more of the comforting warmth he desperately needed.

How long ago had he known such a calming touch, that wasn’t loaded or charged?

Slowly, through the fog and mist of his desolation, a sound carried through. Dean’s breath came out quivering and with broken sobs as he recognised it, using it to let his mind go and to get pulled back to reality.

“Are you humming Metallica?”

His voice was hoarse and ruined, as if he had screamed for his entire life. He figured he might have, considering how long he had fought and hunted. Dean gradually pried his eyes open, or at least he tried to: a better comparison would’ve been if both of his eyelids had been sewed shut with cement poured over. It was a painful task, but he succeeded eventually, getting rewarded with the beautiful sight in front of him.

There was Castiel, kneeling in front of him, grounding him with his soft touch. The former angel’s eyes were wet and worried, scrutinizing every single inch of Dean’s visible skin for injuries, even though he couldn’t heal them anymore. And, for once, Dean didn’t care about the state he was in, didn’t care that he had completely broken down and that he was vulnerable and killable and such an easy prey.

He never did care about any of that, after all, whenever he was around his Angel.

Not that he could call him that anymore, his mind supplied him, traitorous and right.

“I know it calms you down,” Castiel said, still eyeing carefully his face, still with his hand wrapped around Dean’s and with the other on his cheek, running his thumb soothingly over the cheekbone. He sucked a shaking breath in, the pattern continuing to be as erratic as his heart’s. Dean could feel his eyelids begin to drop again, the light too sharp and the sight in front of him too perfect for his ruined mind.

He fought to keep his eyes pried open, memorizing every single little feature off of Castiel’s rumpled state: his hair, always windswept and askew, was standing in all different positions, a few strands falling over his eyes, almost as if he had run his hand through them once; he had loosened his tie, which now hanged open from his neck, and unbuttoned the first two rows of his shirt, letting the collarbones shine through the little gap visible; jacket and trench coat were forgotten on a chair behind him and, without them, with his sleeves rolled up and the wild, frantic look in his eyes, Castiel looked more naked than he ever did.

He also looked sinful and worthy of eternal damnation, but that was a recurrent appearance for the former angel, at least to Dean’s eyes.

Dean tried to speak, to apologise, to beg for forgiveness, but his voice gave out at the mere thought of whispering the other’s name. He didn’t deserve any of that, after all. And so, he kept on staring directly into Castiel’s deep blue eyes, drowning into them and holding into them at the same time.

He could feel his heart begin to race once more, his breathing picked up just at the same speed he left it not long before. The only difference, as another wave of panic washed over him, was that his eyes were wide open, unmoving from the blue orbs that would undoubtedly light up and be his demise.

At least, if he had to go, he reasoned, he would go with the most precious and perfect sight ever created.

Somewhere in his mind, voices were starting to rise again. Not that they had actually stopped, more like lowered their volumes as he tried to focus on Castiel. But now that there was silence all around them, they returned with their full force.

There was a new addition, Dean noticed as he desperately tried to keep panic at bay. “ _He’s here,”_ it said, and “ _he’s staying with you_ ,” and “ _he loves you_.” The voice was almost drowned by the thousands of opposing ones, reminding him how stupid he had been and how idiotic it would be for him to believe all that nonsense, but, somehow, Dean managed to cling to it, letting it be his lighthouse in the sea of self-deprecation he always had to deal with.

It didn’t matter if Castiel had said those words to encourage him, to fool him, or because he truly meant them. They were out, in the open, and their strengthening effect wasn’t going anywhere.

Nor was the former angel, apparently.

“What western films have we not seen together yet?” he asked, positioning to sit more comfortably next to him, never letting his hands go.

The question had been so random, that it pulled Dean straight out of his musings. He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, broken and uneven as his chest heaved and he leaned forward, trying to regain some slivers of dignity. Not that he ever could: around Castiel he acted like a complete buffoon, feeling at ease and at home.

“Why do you ask?” he fired back, once he had managed to stop his shaking to nothing more than a regular nervous tremor. His hands were still encompassed in Castiel’s, but the feeling wasn’t constricting or harmful. He actually enjoyed it, the way the former angel would brush his thumbs against the back of his fingers, of his hands.

It was nice, being held.

“Humour me.”

And so, Dean did: he launched himself on the topic, listing various titles that went from the classic era towards more recent instalments with ease, focusing his mind on them and on the feeling of Castiel’s shoulder pressed against his. The list wasn’t long, he had managed to chuck a good amount of movies at the angel, whenever he could stay at the bunker, sometimes Dean falling asleep on the couch and waking up with a blanket tucked over him.

His heart would always sing at that, so much that his traitorous brain needed to swing by and remind him that it meant nothing, that he was an angel and that angels couldn’t feel. And, when they did, they didn’t fall for someone as worthless as a lame and pathetic hunter.

Castiel looked at him puzzledly as he finished with his listing, a simple “Why?” as his only comment. Dean was tempted to remove his hands from where they carefully held. But he didn’t, not because the former angel’s hold was too tight or limiting, like a trap or a cage, but because he loved the warm way he was being taken care of.

He wasn’t really used to letting himself go in any way, not before Castiel came into his life with a storm and sparkles at least.

And that had been a loaded question, whether or not the former angel realised that. Movies like “ _Brokeback Mountain”_ were easy to cross off the list of things to show the unrequited love of his life, because he wasn’t sure of how he would react when he drew comparisons between the hunter sitting next to him and the main characters. Others, like some of the Spaghetti Westerns that he liked so much, were a little more difficult.

It would have been extremely hard to explain why he would always blush and get embarrassed whenever Terence Hill would come on screen, with his piercing blue eyes, his deep low voice and his stoic attitude. Sam already liked to crack jokes about it since they were children, telling him how he might have a crush on all the cowboys to tease him, and Dean had always tried to ignore the comments, replying that he liked the action and the girls.

It was the same reason why he hadn’t been the one to introduce Cas to Star Wars, with his gigantic crush on Han Solo and all.

“Because!” he tried, words already failing him, “Because there were better movies that I wasn’t letting you watch and I already felt like shit for wasting your time around me, and I didn’t want you to realise how I felt!”

There, truth. Dean was tired, so tired, of keeping secrets, of holding himself back, of hiding. And, besides, Castiel had already done the first step into the dancefloor. It was his turn to be honest and to start swinging around, hopefully.

“Why didn’t you want that?” he questioned softly, his hands stopping moving but never leaving Dean’s.

He breathed deeply, letting his eyes zero somewhere on the dirty floor that he still had to clean up. He had spent the previous 11 years keeping his mouth shut around the angel on that specific topic and now he was finally spilling.

The knowledge should have made him feel free, high, happy. Instead, it was terrifying, just the mere thought of admitting it all.  
Nevertheless, he soldiered on. He was a Winchester, after all, not just some random coward off the side of the road. “’Cause you’re an angel,” he began, already cursing his foolishness. Had he forgotten the tiny detail of Castiel’s new form, all due to his stupidity? “Were, sorry.”

But, before he could close in on himself again, Cas just squeezed his hands, reassuringly, comforting.

Dean closed his eyes as he tried to find the right words, letting his heart calm a little. Eventually, he figured how to make his tongue work, sighing before he spoke: “All the angels told me all the time that you guys don’t feel like humans do. That is the biggest difference between us and it’s a weakness. Dad once told me the same thing and, when you guys appeared in our lives, I just thought: ‘ _Well, they’re perfect, so, of course they don’t feel_ ’. And then, when I realised that I… Well, I just buried it, like always. ‘Cause, one thing is knowing that you have a damned school crush on your best friend. Another is that it’s love, pure and unadulterated and unrequited and that can literally never happen. And then, all of our enemies knew about it too, not that I did a good job at hiding, and they always poked at that when they were trying to hurt us or to distract me. But their words meant shit, cause I already knew all that. I knew it was suicide, yet I couldn’t stop loving you anyway. I couldn’t help it, you know? Not when you’re literally perfection and I’m just a pathetic son of a bitch who should’ve kicked the bucket a long time ago.”

Castiel had remained silent during his ramblings, giving him time to finish, and he kept on being silent afterwards. Dean knew that he was being illogical, that they were already there, with all their cards laid on the table and, by some miracle, appearing to be matching, yet he couldn’t shake the dread and fear that clung to his bones.

“You did not believe if I felt the same way you did,” Castiel said eventually, his voice flat and heavy at the same time. It was just a matter of fact, not a question that needed to be answered, yet Dean chose to reply nevertheless, unable to stomach the complete silence any longer. He longed for the lost days in which he and the angel could just be speechless in each other’s presence. And he desperately wanted for them to come back, alongside everything he was almost certain he had lost.

“Do,” he just admitted, only to rectify when the former angel made a sound of misunderstanding at his meaning: “I still do, feel like that. And yes, I didn’t know, but not knowing is safer. Besides, when have things gone right for me?”

He tried for a lighter tone, to joke and to let the pregnant and stagnant air around them disperse, but Castiel was nothing if not intense. “Good things do happen, Dean,” he reminded him, using the same words that were spoken in their first real conversation.

“Yeah, so you’ve told me. And then you left, over and over. Even when you were human. I have always known I’d never be someone’s first choice, I wasn’t expecting anything at all. I should’ve known better than to get my hopes up and I didn’t want to destroy our friendship just cause I couldn’t help myself falling in love with you. And then, you said all those things before the Empty took you, knowing that I’d be too surprised to respond! Not cool, man, really not cool. So, I, I don’t know… it didn’t sit right with me that you weren’t around.”  
There was another pause, but this time Dean didn’t feel the need to occupy it. Not when Castiel put his head on his shoulder as he squeezed his hands tighter, before manoeuvring their fingers to intertwine.

And Dean’s heart fully stopped then, or at least it had to. There was no universe in which he might’ve been lucky enough for anything in their conversation to be real, which meant that he must’ve landed in Heaven, living the best version of his reality. Or perhaps, he was locked down in Hell, and that was his torture, forever.

Either way, he didn’t want the moment to end. So, they just stayed like that, Castiel carefully holding him in the palm of his hands.

“In the Empty, you said I was asleep. How did you find me then?” he eventually inquired, voice ushered and soft, as if it was a secret in between the two of them. Dean supposed it might have been, since he wasn’t willing to repeat that to anyone else but the man sitting next to him.

 _“I would recognise you from touch alone, by smell. I would know you blind, by the way your breaths came and your feet struck the earth. And I would know you in the death, at the end of the world,_ he quoted, unable to use his own words. He knew that it was a cheap cop-out, but citations and quotes had always worked best to express his own emotions, better than his own mind ever could, and he desperately needed Castiel to know his true meaning. Couldn’t risk it.

The hand holding his squeezed him tight as Cas nodded his head in acknowledgement. Of course he would’ve understood, the former angel was the only person in the entire world who truly _knew_ Dean, inside and out. How could’ve he been foolish enough to forget that?

He was the one who saw him, broken edges and sarcasm, and chose to stay by his side, no matter what.

Dean sucked in a breath as tears threatened to spill down his cheeks again, letting a few of them fall freely, physically unable to remove his hands from Castiel’s.

He didn’t know just how long they had remained like that, closer than he had ever dared to believe possible, but for the first time in his life, Dean felt happy.

Not content, with his heart surrounded by barbed wire that stung whenever he dared to dream outside of his monotonous world, whenever he pretended he could ignore all of his problems, even for a little while. Actually happy, like he probably had never been, carefree and without the weight of the world resting on his shoulder. And Dean just let himself be in the moment, forcing his mind to stay in the present without worrying about every impending doom and threat nearby, because, for once, he could.

They had defeated Chuck and were finally able to live, and Dean wasn’t going to waste another minute of his newly found happiness without having his Angel by his side, if he could help it.

Because now he knew that he could lay his claim on the former angel, just as Castiel had done on him all those years prior in Hell.

“I have one last question,” Cas said, softly, almost startling Dean out of his mind.

“I wasn’t aware we were doing the 20 game,” he replied instantaneously, unable to let the snarky remark go unsaid, which earned him a little shove from the former angel, his head still rested over Dean’s shoulder, over the imprint of his own hand. Now that that dam had opened, he wasn’t able to hold himself back any longer: he removed one of his hands from Castiel’s vice, immediately lamenting the lack of warmth and pressure, but ignoring his momentary discomfort in favour of movement; he draped his arm over Cas’ shoulders, inviting him to lean further in. When the former angel settled in between his arms, something that Dean had dreamed of for over a decade, he sighed his content, leaning once again against the wall.

In his initial state of panic, he hadn’t realised that Cas had pushed him back to make him sit more comfortably and breathe better than he did with only the old stool keeping him upright, but he surely wasn’t complaining. He had always had great planning skills, that angel of his.

“Why did you save me?”  
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked back, unsure if he’d be able to explain it to the full extent. He was his best friend, the love of his life, and without him his life sucked, but there was also more to his quest. He had wanted to find a way to bring the angel back to respond to him, to confess the burning secret that had been killing him slowly just to keep. He knew that there would be no other happiness, if he wasn’t around. He knew that there wouldn’t have been any meaning to life or to the afterlife without him.

While it was true, that he had brought Cas back from the dead because he couldn’t live without him, he had also done it for selfish reasons. Dean wouldn’t have been able to enjoy Paradise or to endure Damnation without his Angel, which threw in a wrench in his plans to call it quits.

And, for once in his cursed life, he wanted to be selfish, to be greedy. He wanted something he had never dared to hope and dream about.

Therefore, the suicide rescue mission that had miraculously gone right, better than expected.

“Tell me anyway.”

There was nothing that he would have denied his Angel, and so he tried: “Because I cannot live without you. These past days, they’ve been worse than Hell. Every day that I had to wake up it was torture, I just kept on seeing you everywhere, just before they took you away, and I had to drown my thought in various amounts of alcohol just to function. We got rid of Chuck to have a normal life, to be able to enjoy it! But you weren’t here. And, you weren’t even upstairs, so, I had to find a way to eventually get you back. Even if I thought I would never be able to have this, knowing that you were around would’ve been amazing. More than I deserved.”

He could feel Cas’ eyes over him, watching his every move as he struggled to find the right words, as he stumbled over his breathing, heart pumping fast in his chest. And, just because he could, he dared to rest his lips over his Angel’s forehead, softly and quickly, just as he had always dreamed of.

“You know, I always manage to fuck everything up,” he continued, holding Cas tight against his body as the former angel chuckled at him, “and I thought, for a moment, that I had fucked up irreparably this as well. I’m so glad I haven’t, ‘cause I love you. I love you, more than you can wrap your head around. I am everything that I am because of you. I love you Castiel. And I can’t bear the thought of being away from you. And I know I’m a douchebag and an asshole for keeping it a secret for so long, but I was scared and _‘if I loved you less I’d be able to talk about it more’_ _._ ”

The hand that wasn’t intertwined with his moved once again to his cheek, wiping the newly sprung tears out of his eyes as Dean closed them, overwhelmed, for once, in the good way.

And, with a simple yet incredibly hard to obtain “I love you too, Dean Winchester,”, his internal dam broke loose completely, letting 40 years of fear and rage and shame was over him, getting replaced by devastating relief and love. His entire body broke down in full sobs, letting Cas encircle him with his arms, like he never dared to dream about. There was no way he was this lucky, he thought as his own hand moved up to cup his Angel’s cheeks, finding them as wet as his own.

Except that, there was a way. He had fought and bleed and died to arrive where he was, in the arms of his Angel.

And, just as he had dreamed about countless times, he let his eyes close as he gently placed his lips over Castiel’s.

It wasn’t perfectly synchronised or, generally speaking, perfect by any means, with both of their breaths ragged and uneven, with the pressure of the other’s lips either too small or great, and with the lack of direction they were having. But it was perfect nevertheless, because it was Dean kissing Cas and Cas kissing Dean, and they both had waited far too long for it to be anything less of perfection.

Dean didn’t really know how long they remained like that, tangled on the cold floor, seated in a weird position and trading imperfect kisses that were to make up for over a decade of pining. Now that he had started, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop, addicted and elated on the feeling of Castiel’s body next to his.

But, they were both humans who needed to breathe. Still, neither wanted to move far away, already having spent too much time apart.

“What do you want to do now?” Dean asked softly, allowing his nose run over the stubble on Cas’ cheeks before letting his forehead rest on the former angel’s, happy and desperately in love, finally able to say it out loud.  
Cas opened his eyes, pupils full-blown yet leaving clearly that deep blue that Dean was so entranced by. He smiled lazily at him, placing a chaste and quick kiss to his lips, before he spoke, directly into Dean’s ear: “How about… we get up from this cold floor? We are both middle-aged humans without any supernatural help, our joints are going to attempt our murders if we remain here any longer.”

And Dean just had to kiss the smirk off of his face, landing them both on the cool floor rolling, uncaring of the dried blood and dirt that was probably clinging to their clothes and hair.

“I’m going to marry you one day, mark my words!” he said suddenly, without really thinking about the sentences that left his brain unfiltered. He just needed to get them out of his system, unable to bottle them down any longer. But he immediately regretted them as soon as he saw Castiel’s face, serious and deadly.

He tried to apologise, joke it off, but there was no point in denying his intention. He did want to marry Cas, especially because it would be incredibly blasphemous just to think about, and he wanted to spend every day of his, of their lives, together. Dean Winchester, the hunter who believed he’d die young in the middle of a fight, wanted to retire from active duty and grow old with his Angel.  
And he probably wasn’t the only one, judging by Cas’ open expression, eyes overflowing with happiness. “Why wait?” he asked and Dean had to kiss him, because he could, because he’d never grow tired of doing so.

“’Cause I gotta give you a ring first!” he replied, darting up to his feet as fast as his legs allowed him, not even bothering to straighten his clothes. He levelled Castiel with a stern gaze, letting his eyes feast on the puffy lips and rosy cheeks with pride swelling his veins, before he sprinted away, flying on his feet. “Wait right here, don’t you dare moving!” he called back in his run, listening to Cas’ laugh that echoed behind him, off the walls.

He couldn’t believe his luck, he couldn’t believe that this was his reality, that it was real.

But it was, and his heart had never been fuller, happier. And so he ran, unable to stop the bubbling laughter that escaped his mouth at the thought of being with his Angel for eternity.

He reached his room with a speed that surprised him and dived head straight into his closet, rummaging thought the mess of dirty clothes that he had left there in the previous days.

He thought about his own room, how it was one of the biggest ones in the bunker, with an ensuite and with enough space to comfortably fit a king-sized bed. They’d have to go mattress shopping in the near future, in between all the countless conversations they’d have to have eventually, but, for now, Dean couldn’t help himself but dream, allowing himself to do something he had considered forbidden for too long.

Dean found what he looked for at the bottom of his closet, beginning to immediately rummage through the old box of Bobby’s things that he kept there, looking for something that he hadn’t seen in a good while and that he honestly never believed he’d need.

The old man had just slipped it into his hand a couple of months before he got killed, silently and without comment. His only reply at Dean’s confusion, when he had told him that it was best to give it to Sam, since he was the one who would get out, was: “ _It’s yours, and you’ll know_.”

And know he did.

‘ _Not bad, Winchester,_ ’ the voice inside his head said as he twisted the simple gold band in between his fingers and, for once, Dean didn’t feel like contradicting it.

‘ _Not bad, indeed.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come with me to use J*hn Winchester as a punch ball on Tumblr! @Drjackandmissjo

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> PLEASE don't forget to leave a comment and a kudo, it means a lot!  
> Thanks again,  
> Jo


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